White Collar: Wherever You Happen To Be
by Ruahnna
Summary: Title: Wherever You Happen To Be Rating: Gen Genre/Relationship: General Friendship Spoilers: None Word Count: 35,648 This section: 2,264 Story Summary: When Peter gives Neal the signal to run, Neal stays to protect Peter instead. Life in DC's Art Crimes Division can't be that bad, right? But living under Kramer's thumb and out of Peter's protection is harder than Neal imagined
1. Chapter 1

**Title: Wherever You Happen To Be**  
**Rating**: Gen  
**Genre/Relationship:**General Friendship  
**Spoilers:** None  
**Word Count: **35,648 **This section**: 2,264  
**Story Summary:** When Peter gives Neal the signal to run, Neal stays to protect Peter instead. Life in DC's Art Crimes Division can't be _that_ bad, right? But living under Kramer's thumb and out of Peter's protection is harder than Neal imagined. Will Peter be able to set things right? And can Neal hang on until he does?  
**Written for**White Collar Reverse Big Bang April 2014  
**Acknowledgements**: _Fabulous_ art by Qwertyfaced

**Wherever You Happen To Be**

**Those who do not know the value of loyalty can never appreciate the cost of betrayal. - Anonymous**

"What is this?" Peter knew enough to know that this was not a welcome committee.

Peter's former mentor planted himself on the steps, his expression hard. "These Marshalls are here to take Neal into custody when he returns."

Torn between indignation and disbelief, Peter gaped. "For _what_?"

"If you'd only _listened_ to me." Peter knew that voice, knew it from a hundred lectures, all delivered with a stultifying parochial authority that made Peter chafe.

"For _what_?" he repeated, hands on hips.

"Public endangerment. I've got a dozen eye-witnesses who saw Caffrey hop that tram. Combine that with evading arrest, obstruction of justice—hell, I may even throw in a _jaywalking charge_ for good measure."

Peter's surprise gave way to outrage. "We're not in the revenge business. Neal _pissed you off,_ and now you want to hurt him." Peter was angry—yes, but he was also hurt. He had modeled himself in part after Kramer, who had been a good mentor in so many ways. This, however—this personal vendetta directed at Neal—was making him see his old mentor in a new light.

"Just control him," Kramer countered mildly. "Neal's got a lot of skeletons. I'll pick one, slap that anklet on him and he'll work for me in DC permanently. You understand this is best for everyone, don't you?"

_Not for Neal_, Peter thought darkly. "I understand this is _not_ the way we do things—" he began, but the older man cut him off with a chuckle.

"I think we've had _quite enough_ of the way _you've_ been doing things, lately," Kramer said. "_You_ brought me in to solve a problem, and now that I'm here, I'm going to solve it. You're in too deep with your C.I.—you've forgotten what you're supposed to be doing, what you're supposed to stand for—"

"Don't you lecture _me_ on remembering what justice means!" Peter said, taking a step forward. His voice was low and dangerous, his eyes blazing. On top of everything, Kramer's pointed reminder that _he_ was the one responsible for his presence here was like salt in an open wound.

From his vantage point on the sidewalk below, Neal couldn't tell what Peter was saying, but he was getting a pretty good general idea. He saw Peter step forward, saw the way his body hunched in anger.

A key component of being a successful con man was reading people—their expressions their body language, their tells. Even from this distance, Neal knew that Peter was heartbeats away from slugging his former mentor, goons or no goons surrounding them. Neal thought about the risks that Peter had taken on his behalf, the way he had shepherded and sheltered him during his time as a C.I. He'd seen Peter's headshake, knew it for the signal to run… There wasn't time to choose—not _really_—but it hardly mattered: there was no real choice to make. He did what he did best.

He _ran_.

He ran up the steps and slipped into the circle of taut and angry men, slipping past Kramer's elbow to stand, half-shielding Peter from the older man. He flashed his trademark con-man smile, blinding in its brilliance.

"Did I…miss a memo?" he said. "I thought we were—_hey now_!" Two of the Marshalls stepped forward and gripped his arms. Part of the art of conning was knowing when to give way, knowing when to _let go_. He held himself in check and did not resist. The Marshalls were well-trained, and they held him with only necessary force. Although his demeanor showed surprise, he continued to smile—not at Peter, but at Kramer. Kramer returned the smile, but smugly, and Neal felt Peter rouse behind him.

Urgently, Neal extended the fingers of his left hand in the subtlest of gestures, but he knew Peter would pick up on it. He knew Peter was tuned to him now, watching him for clues as to what Neal was up to, and Neal walked the fine edge of wanting to tell Peter what _he_ should do without entirely revealing what he was up to himself. Peter stood down, but grudgingly. His eyes were on Kramer's face, but his whole body tensed for sudden action and Neal put all of his energy toward one purpose, into one outcome: whatever happened, he _could not_ let Peter do this, _could not_ let Peter be compromised _any more_ because of him.

Neal looked at Kramer—polite, confused—and smiled as charmingly and as meekly as he could.

"I… I heard you testified at my commutation hearing," Neal said, looking pleased and almost bashful. "That's…wow. That's very…_gracious_ of you, Agent Kramer." Beside him, Peter scowled, and would have made a black retort, but bit it back as the smugness on Kramer's face turned to puzzlement.

"Don't be so sure," Kramer said, frowning. "I testified, although it hardly—" He broke off, his frown deepening into a glower, but there was something cagey in his expression now, something secretive that did not sit well with Peter or bode well for Neal.

"That was kind of you," said Neal, selling his earnestness. "I know your opinion carries a lot of weight." He felt Peter buck beside him, less of a move than a shift in stance, and Neal dug in and _planted_ himself, telegraphing to Peter that if he planned to take on Kramer, he would have to do it by going _through_ Neal. Neal turned and flicked a look in Peter's direction, not _quite_ meeting his eyes, then looked back to Kramer. "Peter was just going in to testify," he said. He smiled quickly but let his nervousness show and chase the smile away. "The Board's still taking testimony."

Kramer started to speak but stopped himself, still looking secretive and defiant. Peter turned and looked _toward_ Neal but not _at_ him, then spoke. "That's right—_the Board_ members haven't made up their mind." He turned and looked at Kramer, eyes narrowed. "We're still waiting to see what they'll say about commuting Neal's sentence." The gantlet had been thrown down, and Peter stared at Kramer, daring him to say the Board's decision was irrelevant, daring him to pit _his_ authority against the panel that was still in session. Internal dogfights could be vicious, and often both parties left limping or maimed.

But Kramer was an old dog, survivor of a dozen internal skirmishes, and he did not take the bait. His face smoothed over into blandness, and he spoke to Neal but looked at Peter.

"I don't know what the Board's decision will be," he said smoothly. "That, of course, is up to them, but I don't know that my testimony will have the effect you hope, Neal."

"Sir?" Neal said, and again, felt Peter tense, practically _heard_ him grinding his teeth. Neal shifted uncomfortably, eyeing the Marshalls and swallowing, looking nervous and scared. Peter knew that Neal was more than capable of hiding his true reaction—_whatever it might be_—so this was obviously for Kramer's sake. "I don't understand."

Kramer's face showed disbelief, then annoyance, then the mask slipped back into place. His voice took on a parochial tone and his eyes crinkled in a parody of warmth. "Neal, I've been looking into some of your…past activities. I'm not going to lie—"

Peter tightened behind him, seething.

"_Past_ activities?" Neal said, sounding surprised. "I was hoping you'd be looking at my _recent_ activities—the time since I started working with the White Collar Division." He smiled and flashed a quick look at Peter. It was a calculated look, full of respect and admiration and deference that bordered on hero-worship. Neal knew enough of what that _felt_ like to do a pretty convincing imitation.

"Oh, I've been looking at _those_, too," Kramer said, affable and smooth. "In fact, it was some of your _recent_ activities that caused me to…um…_backtrack_." He looked at Neal, looking to see if his words had hit home. They appeared to have done so, for Neal swallowed again, distinctly unhappy now. Kramer pulled some papers out of his jacket pocket, tapped them lightly against his palm. "Would you like to try to explain what happened yesterday on that tram?"

"I…I got nervous," Neal said. "The Board, the responsibility of authenticating the Raphael." He darted another look at Peter, doe-eyed and contrite. "When I get nervous, I…well, I _run_, but Peter talked me through it." He smiled at Peter, and while his posture was submissive, his eyes boring into Peter's were hard. _I am __**doing this**_, the look said plainly. _Get on board and __**deal with it**_**.**

"Running wasn't very smart when you're so…close," Kramer said carefully, watching Neal. He seemed to be looking for something in Neal's reaction, something specific.

"That's what Peter said," Neal admitted sheepishly. "He brought me back around. He usually knows when I'm up to something in time to head it off." He looked away, looking embarrassed at being so well-read.

Kramer was quiet for a moment—thoughtful and shrewd, then he appeared to make up his mind. He shot Peter a look and stepped forward. The step took him right into Neal's space, and Neal was currently backing up to Peter's space with little to spare. The Marshalls hemmed him in on either side, but they were stoic, taking no part in melodrama. Kramer looked at Peter for a moment, then away, marking him as irrelevant. He pitched his voice low, intimate, and looked directly at Neal.

"_I_ know when you're up to something, Neal," Kramer murmured. "And I know what you're doing _now_."

There was a moment—a moment that crackled with electricity—then all of Neal's meekness fell away. He squared his shoulders and looked at Kramer, his blue eyes hard.

"So what happens now?" Neal asked.

"If you come quietly, I won't cuff you in front of your _friend_," Kramer said. The way he said it, the way he dismissed Peter's authority—made Neal want to slug him, but he shoved the impulse down. Right now, it was about surviving the moment, making things easier for Peter. He could deal with fallout later, when it was just him and Kramer.

"Fine," said Neal. _Get it over with, get Peter out of harm's way, get __**on**__ with it already._ The die was cast—there was nothing for it but to ride it out.

Kramer smiled, then looked toward Peter. "Smart boy," he said softly. Peter's expression was fierce, his neck tense with fury, and he met Kramer's insouciant expression with venom.

"This _isn't right_," Peter said, practically growling.

"A judge determines what's right," Kramer countered. "It's not too much to let a judge decide now, is it?" Peter heard the patronizing wheedle in his tone, found himself thrown back to his rookie days when he had been mentored and shaped by this man. The thought was all but intolerable to him now, and he felt his gorge and his anger rise in equal measure.

"Damn it, Phil," he cried, trying to reach the man who had once been his friend. "This isn't some _game_, where you just—"

"I _assure_ you, Peter—I'm taking this _very_ seriously. Very seriously indeed." He cocked his head and studied Peter, a look that Peter knew well. _That_ look preceded a lecture on the faults with your deductions, the faults with your understanding of the evidence. Peter did not think he could stand here and let the man lecture him while— "Aren't you supposed to be testifying, Peter?" Kramer said. He nodded his head toward the building looming behind them.

"What difference does it make _now_?" Peter said bitterly. He had a hard time getting the words over his teeth.

"Oh, I'd say it makes a _lot_ of difference. After all, you _are_ Neal's handler—at least, _right now_ you are—and I'm sure we'd all like to know what _you_ think about his performance as a C.I.—for the _record_, you know."

The threat was obvious, and Neal and Peter were both aware that the Marshalls shifted and stiffened. They were stalwart men, obedient and dutiful, but they were also men who were not strangers to conflict or violence. Whatever _this_ was, whatever they had assumed their duties to be, _this_ sounded like something else, something low and foul.

"What about Neal?" Peter asked, but could not meet his C.I.'s eyes.

"Oh, Neal will be _just fine_ here with me. We have a few things to sort out." He nodded toward the building. "Go on—go ahead and testify. It will be…_interesting_ to see what the panel does."

Peter looked toward Neal, meeting his eyes at last. He was loathe to leave not knowing what might happen once he was out of sight, but Neal's expression, while grim, was resigned.

"Go," Neal said. "Go and testify. That's the best thing you can do now, Peter."

"But—"

"Peter." He held Peter's gaze, staring him down, _standing_ him down.

"I can't just—"

"You _can_."

Peter frowned and shook his head, then shot Kramer a look that _should_ have given the man pause, but if it had any effect it did not show. Peter turned on heel and stopped, obviously trying to calm himself before walking up the steps and entering the building. Neal did what he could.

"It will be fine," Neal called after him, thinking this was as close to telling Peter a lie as he had ever come.

,


	2. Chapter 2

Kramer had watched Peter go inside the building to testify before turning back to face Caffrey. He had looked at the young man in front of him and felt two distinct things—the thrill of victory and the bitter taste of betrayal. He had gained his man and his point, but lost the admiration and regard of his former mentee. It galled, that after everything he had done for Peter, Peter seemed willing to cut him out rather than admit his C.I. was doing an end- run on him that he was too blind to see. His eyes narrowed as he looked at Caffrey, standing without apparent discomfort between two burley Marshalls, making what passed for small talk between _hunters_ and _hunted_. One of the men—not one of the ones holding him—had smiled at something Neal said, and the other guards' relaxed stances and amused faces told Kramer that the Caffrey charm was evidently on display. _That_ would have to stop. He had hoped to cow Neal, hoped to subdue him with the over-the-top escort, but—as usual—Neal had somehow managed to turn his adversaries into allies. Kramer had frowned, making sure he caught the eyes of the Marshalls, who'd straightened and dashed the smiles from their faces.

Caffrey's eyes on Kramer had been composed, however, and _his_ _smile_ had lingered, even when they'd taken him away.

Had the outcome not been moot, waiting for the Panel's decision would have been excruciating. El had paced and chewed the end of her thumb. Peter paced and swore. Neal had been whisked away, and Peter did not know whether or not Neal knew or cared any longer what the Board had to say. As soon as his testimony was done, Peter had been on the phone, all but shouting more than once, but there was nothing conclusive to tell, nothing conclusive to know. Kramer's drummed-up charges were apparently going to be allowed to stick, and Peter's own claims to Neal as his current handler had apparently been over-ridden under whatever authority Kramer had dredged up.

Useless at work after Peter's call, El had finally left. She had gone to Peter's office, but his nervous energy was unsettling, and her phone battery had gone down. She went home, plugged in the phone and found no less than 27 text messages waiting for her, 15 of them from Mozzie. _This_ from being down less than an hour and a half. She thought of the uneaten cakes awaiting them in the dining room and couldn't bear to look at either of them. She wondered again which one would be appropriate and whether or not Neal would get to eat any of either of them. From what Peter had finally dragged out of Bruce, cake seemed the least of Neal's worries, and El knew that Peter's worries were going to be off the chart, and _soon_. Her own worries for the man she loved, and the young man he mentored were eating at her even now.

Peter had long known that Phil Kramer didn't like losing. It had been one of the things Peter had admired about him—his doggedness when in pursuit of the truth. He wondered now about his perception of Kramer as a harbinger of justice. There had been a time when Peter had _idolized_ him, impressed by his experience and skill, but had that admiration blinded him to what the man really _was_? Or had Phil changed, hardened? Peter hadn't known about Phil's experience with his own C.I., and wondered guiltily if knowing about it would have made him think twice about bringing him in to help with Neal. When he'd _asked _him to come, he had _wanted_ Kramer's help to prove Neal's guilt. He had wanted to find Neal guilty, _wanted_ to haul him to justice…. He remembered saying something to Neal, something about being careful what he wished for… Bile rose in his throat, and the taste of ashes. _He_ had done this, _he_ had brought Kramer in, and now Neal….

Neal was in Kramer's clutches, and getting him out didn't look to be a quick fix.

"This is a _catastrophe_!" Mozzie cried. He paced back and forth in June's dining room, gesticulating wildly. June perched on one of the ornate chairs and fretted, but gracefully. Mozzie's fretting was _anything_ but graceful, and he patted his sweating brow with one of June's fine linen napkins and hummed snatches from Tosca in a vain effort to calm himself.

"Just wait and see what the Board says," June said, but there was a tremor in her upper lip that belied her sangfroid. "We've all done what we could—now we just have to wait and see what the Board says."

"Wait? _Wait_?! Why, _even now_, Neal could be on his way to DC with a sack over his face, never to be seen again!"

June knew all too well that that scenario, however aggrandized in Mozzie's mind, might actually be close to the truth. Elizabeth had told them that Peter had been unable to punch through the red tape, even with help from friends higher up. Neal had been taken into custody and was presently under Kramer's personal supervision. The Panel had not yet returned a verdict, but Diana had managed to find out that their decision had been put on hold, pending the outcome of Kramer's newest charges. "Hurry up and wait" had turned into "hurry up and stew" and there was no telling when a resolution might be reached.

"At least they haven't come for Neal's things," June said soothingly.

Mozzie stopped his frenetic pacing, his face breaking into a cautious smile. "They _haven't_!" he cried. "That—that _has_ to be good—right?"

But they were wrong.

New York to DC is a blink in an airplane—actually going _through_ the airport usually took longer—but Kramer hadn't been willing to chance taking Neal through a crowded airport, even with a cadre of Marshalls. Kramer frowned as he followed the brown-shirted officers down the long passageway, his gut churning. He had thought the escort would help him control Neal—a show of force that commanded respect—but Caffrey had been the poster boy for compliance since he'd arrived on the steps. He had followed all directions, answered all questions, put his hands out for the cuffs without a tremor or a hard look. His docility made Kramer look weak in contrast. Even the Marshalls, who knew Caffrey by reputation, seemed to feel that they were there more for show than necessity.

Kramer seethed, but he knew they were wrong. While he hadn't wanted to take Neal through the airport—way too much potential for a seasoned runner like Caffrey—he was still aware that hopping trains was nothing knew, whether you were hopping _on_ or hopping _off_. Once they got settled in DC, Kramer would be in his own comfort zone, and Caffrey would be out of his. He felt certain that, with a little time to explain things to Caffrey, he could convince him of the futility of running. And once they were in DC, Kramer had no doubt—no doubt at all—that he could bend this brilliant, talented young man to his will.

He settled his bulk into a seat facing Caffrey and Neal looked up from the magazine he'd been perusing. They'd taken Neal's wallet, phone and watch and cleaned out his pockets. Sympathetic to his boredom, one of the Marshalls—Evan, by name—had bought him a travel magazine to pass the time. Neal had accepted it without irony and was now thumbing through the glossy pages.

"Planning a trip?" Kramer asked, indicating the periodical. His voice was warm, almost friendly.

"_Taking_ one," Neal said easily. He put the magazine aside and looked at Kramer without flinching. Kramer returned the look.

"You'll like DC," Kramer said at last.

"Oh, I don't know. I love the hustle and bustle of New York," Neal said, and smiled. The smile didn't reach his eyes.

"Plenty of bustle in DC," Kramer said mildly. "But maybe not as much…_hustle_," he added. Neal looked away rather than let Kramer see the flash of fury in his eyes. He said nothing, waiting Kramer out, and eventually the older man spoke again. "This is for the best," Kramer said. "You'll see. You'll get to work on exciting cases, bring all of that talent to bear."

"I think my record proves that I was using my talents pretty effectively in the White Collar Division," Neal said, trying to remain civil.

"You mean _Peter's_ record, don't you?" Kramer said, his eyebrows climbing. "_Your_ record…well, that's a different thing, isn't it?" Neal turned back and looked at him, and the hardness of those eyes made him swallow. Kramer might _look_ like a soft man, but he _wasn't_—he used the illusion of softness to draw people in, to disarm their defenses. Neal knew what he was looking at when he saw it, and what he saw was very, _very_ good. "You and Peter certainly closed a lot of cases together," he said. "You seem to work awfully well as a team."

"We did. We do," Neal managed. Panic was making him stupid. He needed to _reach_ this man, needed to figure out what made him tick so he could use it for his own benefit. Thinking like an agent wasn't helping him now—he needed to think like a con. "We…Peter knows so much about…justice. About how it's _supposed_ to work."

"And you think what happened in all those cases you worked was justified? You're satisfied with the outcomes of _all_ those cases?"

Neal thought about Keller and tried not to squirm. "It's not for me to say, _sir_," Neal said, using the honorific carefully. "Our goal was always to get the best possible outcome."

"That's good to hear," said Kramer. He smiled and Neal felt like an ice cube was sliding slowly down his spine. "That means we—you and I—have some _common ground_." The way he said it made Neal feel like the ground had gone spongy underneath his feet.

"I don't—"

"We both want what's best for Peter, don't we? Neither of us wants to see his career take a…bad turn. I know you appreciate all he's done for you…."

Neal swallowed, trying to sort through this minefield of a conversation. "I want what's best for Peter," Neal said finally.

Kramer reached out and patted him fondly, like a faithful dog. "Good boy," said Kramer, then got up and strolled toward the front of the train, leaving Neal alone with his thoughts and the Marshalls.

Burke's 7 had reformed, with June taking over Neal's role, and the group of them taking over the Burke's kitchen.

"I don't understand," El said, handing Peter a sandwich. He stared at it, started to hand it back and then bit into it savagely. Diana spoke while Peter chewed.

"Bruce said that Kramer pulled some strings and had Neal's deal transferred to him. Neal's on his way to DC."

Peter swallowed. "He's not flying. We checked all the airports. They must be driving," Peter said.

"Train, actually," Jones said, coming in from the other room where he'd been on the phone. He'd called a girl he'd dated a few times, one who had seemed to want to date him again, and she'd come through at the promise of dinner. A _nice_ dinner. "Tanya—that is, my _contact_ works for the Marshall's office, and she said that there were six train tickets purchased earlier—"

"_Train_ tickets—damn!" said Peter. "I should have expected Kramer to pull a fast one."

"You should _know_," said Mozzie pointedly. He was sitting on a stool in the kitchen, pouting, but at least he was there. Diana shot him a dark look but El patted him as she handed him a sandwich, too.

"But I still don't understand how Kramer can override Peter's agreement," El said. "Peter signed papers saying that Neal was in his custody, and that he'd be responsible for Neal's behavior. How can Kramer just—"

"He pulled rank," said Jones.

"He did an end run," said Diana shortly. "He's got somebody's ear."

"Not the body part _I_ was thinking," June muttered. "They didn't even let Neal get his things."

"Well, maybe he's not going to be staying long," Sara said, leaning elegantly against the kitchen island. She'd come when Peter had called, bristling with indignation and worry. "That could be a _good_ thing, right?" No one answered, but the varying looks of disgust and anger convinced her that it was wishful thinking. "But…but how will Neal…he doesn't even have any clothes."

"Kramer will take care of that," Peter muttered. Eventually all eyes turned to him, waiting for him to explain. He sighed, then took in a deep breath, trying to loosen his chest enough to talk without shouting. "Kramer will take care of _everything._ He'll find a place, plop Neal into it and control everything until Neal knuckles under and does what he says."

They stared at him.

"Honey, what do you—?"

"I've seen him do it before. We had a co-conspirator who agreed to turn on his buddies, so we put him in protective custody. Kramer put him in a safe house and controlled everything that came in and went out—kept the guy in a bubble until the trial to make sure he didn't make contact with the outside world, and no one made contact with him."

"But…Neal isn't under protective custody," June finally objected. "He's _working_ for the FBI."

"True," said Peter, "but he _is_ under Kramer's control. Remember those forms I had to sign, June, so Neal could stay with you?"

"Yes, but what—?"

"Pretty much, what you get and what you do are up to your custodial officer. Since we're responsible, we get a say in practically everything, if we choose to exercise it. I've seen agents who were real sticklers about mail, former contacts, phone calls—you name it. If they thought the contact would be harmful to their C.I., they nixed it."

On his perch on the stool, Mozzie swallowed. He hadn't realized, exactly, that Peter could have ordered Neal not to have contact with him (not that it would have made any difference). The fact that he _hadn't_ done that made Mozzie both grateful and ashamed, and his expression (as well as his heart) softened a little in response.

"So, you're saying Kramer could keep us from calling Neal?" Sara asked.

"We know his phone's been off since Peter went in to testify," Diana said.

"Everybody knows not to send, um, _anything_ by text or email, right?" Peter said, but quite unnecessarily. They all nodded. "We have to assume that Kramer is going to monitor everything."

"Wait, _wait_," Elizabeth said. "Are you actually telling me that we won't be able to contact Neal?"

"It looks that way."

"Well, Neal can contact _us_ then," said June, "when he gets his new number."

Peter's look was answer enough, and El put a hand to her throat involuntarily. "You mean…you mean he might keep Neal from contacting us, too?"

"It's…I've known cases, but that was where there was misconduct between the Agent and the C.I."

"Would Kramer consider—" June began, but Clinton broke in.

"No—he means _misconduct_. Not, um…." The big agent faltered before June's clear-eyed gaze.

"Oh," she said. "So there isn't a precedent for…_this_ sort of thing."

Peter huffed out an exasperated breath. "What does _that_ mean—" he began, then stopped and took another big, calming breath. "Right now," he said carefully, "Kramer hasn't actually _said_ that we—that _I've_ done anything wrong."

"He's sure as hell _implied_ a lot," Diana muttered.

"He's _like_ that," Peter said, realizing with a pang that it was true. Underlying his concern about Neal was watching one of his heroes crumble before his eyes. It was a double whammy, a double loss, but he needed to concentrate on the side of things he could _fix_.

"So, Suit—um, Peter…are you saying that Kramer _threatened_ you? And Neal is in his custody? Under his thumb?"

Silence was more eloquent than anything Peter could have said.

Four walls, a bed. An electric burner. An ugly lamp. Neal lay on the hard bed with his shoes off in the only clothes he had and wondered what the Board had said. He had not been allowed to go back to hear the decision, and the lines he'd prepared, _had been preparing_ all week, regardless of the outcome, rattled around in his head like loose change. Would the Board members know he hadn't been permitted to come back for their verdict? If they didn't, would it count against him? If someone told them he'd been taken into custody, it wasn't exactly going to help. Neal sighed and stared up at the ceiling, blinking rapidly. _Dusty_, he told himself sharply. The room was _dusty_ as well as ugly. _Never con a con man_, Neal thought dismally, and tried to calm his nerves.

Was he _free_? Or _would_ he be, if they could sort this out? He wondered what Peter was doing, wondered if Peter even knew where he was. He wondered what Mozzie was doing, if he'd run when Kramer had lowered the boom. He wondered what Sara would think, and if she would miss him. Things had gotten on a pretty good footing between them, but…. He exhaled loudly and heaved himself off the bed. He was in DC being held captive against his will—more or less—and he was worried about his _love life_? Why the hell couldn't he _think? What was the __**matter**__ with him?_

Adrenaline. He was o'd-ing on adrenaline, practically climbing out of his skin, and he could not think, could not plan what to do. He had spent the last few weeks shoring up his support network, reminding himself of all people he cared about, all the people who cared about him, all the things he had going for him in New York, and the sudden loss of everything—_everything_—was making him dizzy, drunk with sorrow and loss. He paced the small room, trying not to pant, and the four walls pressed close.

He put his palms together, biting his thumbs, then raked his hands through his hair, reminding himself to breathe, to relax. _Think_. He needed to _think_.

At the train station, Kramer had put Neal into a taxi, climbed in after him and sent the Marshalls on their way. The message had been clear—Kramer was no longer worried about him fleeing. He was counting on the fact that his insinuations, his _threats_ against Peter, were going to do the job for him without the need of muscle. While his own predicament was dire, Neal couldn't help but admire the skill with which Kramer had closed the trap, pulled the noose tight around his neck.

Yesterday, victory had been snatched out of the jaws of defeat. Peter, Mozzie, Sara…Ellen—they had all helped, and yesterday he had gone to bed free in spirit if not in body. Today, all of that was gone, wiped out by the blind, blunt will of Agent Kramer, who wanted to _own_ him.

There was a noise in the hall and Neal stopped suddenly, watching the knob. Sure enough the doorknob began to turn and he had only enough time to smooth his hair and slip to stand in front of one of the two cupboard doors. He had it open and was surveying the contents when Kramer opened the door without knocking.

"A few things for tomorrow," Kramer said. He had a cheap suit in a plastic hanging bag and a couple of bags from a drug-store chain. He walked in without apologizing, crossing uncomfortably close to where Neal stood in the kitchenette and peered over Neal's shoulder into the cabinet. The cabinet held instant oatmeal, some processed cereal, a box of saltines and a can of tuna—in short, nothing edible. There was a small tin of cheap coffee and some powdered creamer, which Neal looked at with distaste.

"You'll be fine," Kramer said, although Neal had not complained. "We have coffee at the office, too."

He hung the hanger in the small closet and unpacked the other articles onto the bed. There were some cheap cotton boxers and some dress socks, bargain shampoo and toothpaste and a blue toothbrush. Neal looked over the contents without expression from where he stood, and watched as Kramer took the plastic wrappers off of everything, including the suit, and stuffed them into one of the plastic bags.

"That should get you started."

Neal said nothing, but his eyes bored into the back of Kramer's head until the older man turned to look at him. The intensity of Neal's gaze seemed to discomfit him a little, but _only_ a little, and he gave a little half-smile and started for the door.

"I'll pick you up around 7:00, Neal," Kramer said. "Don't want to be late for your first day."

Neal held his tongue until Kramer was almost out the door.

"This won't stand," said Neal. "You can't keep me here forever."

The half-smile bloomed into a real one. "We'll see," said Kramer, and pulled the door shut after him.

,


	3. Chapter 3

"Let's just get up and make some coffee," El said about four. "Maybe we'll think of something when our subconscious isn't more awake than _we_ are."

Peter rolled over and looked at her in the dim light, glad he no longer had to pretend to sleep. "You are the most amazing woman on the planet," he said. "I'll scramble us some eggs."

Twenty minutes later, they were both robed and sitting down to fluffy scrambled eggs and strong coffee. The toast popped up and El went to retrieve it, setting two light brown slices on the edge of Peter's plate. Other than the sandwich last night, Peter had not really eaten anything yesterday past breakfast, and the combination of nerves and gnawing hunger were making him nauseated. The eggs and toast helped, and the coffee made everything seem brighter.

Peter was more encouraged today than yesterday. "I'm sure this is fixable," Peter said, and El nodded and smiled tentatively. She was worried about this degree of optimism, especially at four-thirty in the morning, but she didn't want to rain on his enthusiasm.

"Well, Bruce will help you, if he can. Kramer can't be the only one who can pull strings."

"He's not," Peter said, frowning, "but he does have a long reach. I should have seen this _coming_, El—I should have anticipated this."

"Sweetie, if you had been able to anticipate everything that's happened this year—if you had been able to anticipate _any_thing that's happened this year—"

"I know," Peter groaned. "Don't remind me." He ate a bite of toast and talked around it. "But I'm going to take a shower, get dressed and get to the office early. I want to send a few emails, make a few phone calls and I can do that better in the office."

"Good. I'll take a shower after you go, get dressed and look over that menu for the Schwartz's bat mitzvah again. I can't get everything they want from the same place, and we're going to have to order—" She stopped mid-sentence, seeing Peter's distracted expression, then stood up and walked over so she could kiss him on the cheek.

"What?" Peter said. "I mean, that sounds great, Honey. Just great."

El kissed him, this time on the lips, and her smile was gentle. "Just figure out how to get Neal back," she said. "That's what matters."

You up?

Mozzie looked at his phone suspiciously, then recognized the number and sighed with relief. His fingers flew over the keys.

Why?

I have a plan.

Good to know. Don't text.

?

I'll come to you.

Coffee?

It's too early for wine….

15 minutes?

15 minutes

He pushed his feet into his shoes and left Neal's apartment.

"You didn't sleep at all last night," Christie accused, bending to brush a kiss across Diana's hair. "What time did you actually get up?"

"I don't know—two?"

"No—you woke me up at two-thirty tossing and turning." This was said without rancor, and more than a trace of concern in her manner. "Four maybe?"

Diana was looking at her phone. "Four-thirty," she said. "I must have slept a little."

Christie sat down on the footstool at Diana's feet and smiled at her, drowsy and rumpled and beautiful. Diana did a double-take, then put her phone down and leaned forward and kissed her properly. "Hey," she said when Christie opened her eyes. "I should've gotten up instead of tossing and turning all night. Sorry for being such an inconsiderate jerk. I know you have a long day today."

"Don't you _dare_ apologize," Christie cried, indignant. "You're worried about Neal—we're _all_ worried about Neal." She hugged her knees and looked at her partner. "So…what's the plan? What are we going to do to get him back?"

"Well, first we have to _find_ him," Diana said. "Then—"

"I thought he was with Kramer, right? What do you mean, _find_ him?"

"He _is_ with Kramer," Diana said. "So we know he'll be in the Art Crime Division, but apparently Kramer has made the White Collar Division here—the people who worked with Neal—off-limits. For now, anyway. We can't contact him through official channels."

Christie looked troubled. "He can really do that? He can keep you from getting in contact with Neal?"

"He can _try_," Diana said fiercely, and Christie wanted to kiss her. Seeing the look she was getting, Diana blushed and smiled. "I mean, as Neal's handler, Kramer can argue that Neal will acclimate better to his new responsibilities if he doesn't have contact with his old friends. The handler gets the final say."

"But—surely that's _not_ how that rule is supposed to be applied!" Christie cried. "That's to keep Neal away from…_unsavory_ people."

Diana snorted. "You mean like Mozzie?"

Christie grinned. She had met Mozzie twice, and liked him. He was a strange little man, but charming and funny. She knew that, despite her protests to the contrary, Diana liked him, too.

"Oh! Maybe Mozzie could get in touch with him—he doesn't work at White Collar!"

"We're pretty sure that sending Mozzie up to DC to talk to the folks in Art Crimes isn't going to be a smart move. Kramer's pretty savvy, has some feelers out pretty far. If Mozzie blips on Kramer's radar, it's liable to open up a whole new can of worms."

"But you have a plan?"

Diana looked away from Christie's hopeful expression. "Not yet, not really. But we're all working on our own piece of it."

Christie put her hand on Diana's arm. "What's _our_ piece?" she asked, and Diana's frown melted into a smile, undone by the "our." Marriage suddenly didn't seem so scary.

"Well, I'm going to put out feelers to the other departments in DC. I still have some ties to the diplomatic corps and some folks from Accounting who helped us—oh! I know someone I can call!" She pulled out her phone but Christie covered it gently.

"Maybe not on _your phone_," she said. Diana looked at her, surprised, and Christie explained. "If Kramer's got feelers out, you might not want to do that on _your_ phone. Didn't you say he _threatened_ you the other day?"

Diana waved it away, sorry she had mentioned it. "It was nothing. But you're right about the phone. I'll pick up a burner phone on the way to work." She stood up and slung her purse over her arm, then swung back down and kissed Christie on the mouth.

"Mm—coffee breath," giggled Christie, and patted her on the bum as she left.

Neal tried not to look at himself in the mirror once he was dressed. The only thing that felt even vaguely normal was his anklet, and that rankled as much as it ever had. Everything about the suit felt wrong—the fit, the cheap wool blend—even the color seemed dingy. He had tried wearing his own suit with the new shirt—yesterday's shirt was unsalvageable for another day spent in close proximity to others—but it had been disastrous, the fine texture of his suit making the shirt look even more cheap and ill-fitting. He had donned the new suite with distaste, but he had managed it. He knew, or thought he did, that _this_—this isolation, this lack of familiarity, the indignity of having his wardrobe chosen for him like a child—was part of Kramer's plan to put him off, to humiliate and unsettle him. Kramer liked to keep people off-kilter, liked to control them and he wanted to be anything but predictable. He needed more information if he was going to figure out a way out, hopefully on his own terms.

He did his best to ignore it all—this was no time for vanity—and slicked back his damp hair trying to decide if he needed to use the blow-dryer before he realized he didn't have one. The weather here was cool and rainy anyway. He left the apartment and started down the stairs, meeting Kramer on the way up. That was his intent—he did not want Kramer in his very small apartment unless absolutely necessary—and he noted with satisfaction that he looked both surprised and displeased, which was what Neal had hoped for.

Neal looked at his watch, or where his watch would have been if he'd still been wearing one. "Don't want to be late the first day," Neal said, and left Kramer to trail after him down the stairs.

Diana had been more than happy to see Peter when she arrived at the office. She dropped into the chair in his office and handed him a sack from the drugstore. Peter looked inside the paper sack and his eyebrows rose.

"Good idea," he said. He looked at his own phone ruefully. "I've already called Bruce and a few others, so they know we're not going to take this lying down."

"No—it's fine that you talked to Bruce and everybody else on _your_ phone—that's what they'd _expect_ you to do. This phone is for…other calls. Calls you want to keep off the Uboat radar, if you know what I mean."

Peter nodded. "Good thinking, Diana." He started taking the phone out of the package.

Diana smiled. "It was Christie, actually," she said. "She was worried because of what Kramer said to me…." She trailed off, realizing she hadn't told Peter about Kramer's veiled threats and insinuations.

Peter looked at her, mouth pursed, eyebrows climbing. "Diana?"

"Look—it's no big deal," she said. "Kramer must have felt I was…holding back or something. He said something about…not wanting me to lose my job—something like that," she muttered. Her cheeks felt hot and she was afraid to look at Peter. _Damn!_ She hadn't meant to tell him, hadn't meant for him to know.

"He…threatened you? Kramer _threatened_ you? One of my _own_ people, in _my own office_…!"

"Peter, look—I think he was just using that as leverage. Besides, he's not the only person with some clout. I know a few people, too."

"People you used to work with?"

Diana inclined her head and made a face. "Well…." she said.

"People you used to work with…unofficially?" Peter asked. Not all diplomacy happened through legal channels.

"Close enough," said Diana, moving hastily on. "The important thing is, I found out some things that might prove useful." She pulled out a notepad covered in her neat scrawl. "There's no smoking gun, but there's some definite leads to follow up."

"What were you looking for?" Peter asked, and Diana's answer made him smile..

"Leverage," she said. "Anything that works."

"The scarlet bird never sings the same song twice," said Mozzie from behind his newspaper.

"The looney bird is going to have a cup of coffee poured over his head," said Sara. She sat down next to Mozzie on the bench and handed him a cup of coffee. She took the top off her own coffee and blew on it, letting the steam play over her face.

Mozzie took the top off his own cup and inhaled. It wasn't wine, but it wasn't bad.

"You have an idea?" he asked after taking a sip.

"I have some _ideas_," Sara corrected. "But we might need help from some of your friends."

Not for the first time, Mozzie looked at Sara with renewed respect. Sara was all about getting the job done, and she wasn't above getting her hands dirty if necessary. At the Burke's last night, when people had paired or grouped last night based on what they intended to pursue, she had made a beeline for him, proof positive that she intended to make sure that the less legal avenues were equally explored. If she needed help from one of his friends, he knew they'd be safe in her hands—unless they _crossed_ her.

"Tell me what you need," said Mozzie. "I'll do anything I can."

This time, Kramer wanted a public venue. There were times when it better served your purpose to meet with people one-on-one—he had certainly found his private conversations with Diana very useful. Although she had remained outwardly calm and polite, had done everything he asked, he could tell his questions and insinuations had made her squirm. It had been a necessary evil, unsettling a good agent like Berrigan, but he'd trusted that the outcome would justify the means. But today—for _this_—Kramer wanted a more public arena. Caffrey was slippery, and he had friends—_that_ much was certain—but Neal was in _his_ arena now, and he wanted everything out in the open. _Everything_.

If that meant making a few people uncomfortable, so be it. He had kept Neal close once they'd arrived at the office, discouraging contact from any of the other employees by the simple expedient of closing his office door.

Neal sat on the uncomfortable chair beside the desk in his boxy suit and clamped his mouth shut, determined not to ask for anything. He was glad Kramer hadn't humiliated him by sending him for coffee, but later wished he _had_—at least it would have gotten him out of Kramer's office and into contact with other people. Neal had already checked where the phones were, where the computers were, where electrical outlets were placed, what blind spots there were in the big, open room. The room itself was architecturally distinctive, older than their building in New York, but the floor plan of a busy, functioning office is just that, and while it was not the same as his old office, it was not an interesting sort of different.

He was surprised to discover that Kramer's office was rather pedestrian. There were a couple of original art pieces on the wall that Neal grudgingly admitted were in good taste, and there were a handful of nice art prints scattered around—Van Gogh's "Sunflowers" and a lesser-known Matisse that made Neal feel both more comfortable and more uneasy. There was a lot here that Kramer could entice him with—he was an old hand, knowledgeable about using the carrot as well as the stick—and Neal kept his force fields up. If he'd had phasers, he'd have put them on stun, but he hadn't even been given back his watch or wallet, making him dependent on Kramer for everything.

They had not talked other than out of necessity on the cab ride in to the office, although Neal had worked to remain civil, to keep his expression fixed and neutral if not polite. Here, it was a challenge to be in close proximity to Kramer, watching _him_ work without anything of his own to do, but he sat with every appearance of calm as the big room downstairs filled with people. He realized he was rather on display where he sat, and knew that there were probably many curious glances coming his way, but he refused to turn around and look. Plus, he suspected that, if he tried, Kramer might try to make him go stand in the corner. The image made him want to smile or grimace, but he handled it. This was awkward, but he wouldn't be under Kramer's watchful eye the whole time. As soon as he had a chance to talk to the other workers, he could figure out how to deal with the lack of a phone.

Kramer looked up, over his shoulder, then smiled and closed the folder that he'd been reading. He had been reading files since they had arrived, and while he hadn't made a big show of it, he had made sure that Neal saw _nothing_—not even the names on the files. It was just another subtle reminder that he, Neal, wasn't to be trusted, and that everything he got was going to be doled out to him in little pieces. This was a waiting game, with Kramer hoping to grind away at his resolve like a millstone, but Neal had _learned_ patience running cons, and had honed that patience to a fine art in prison. He thought he could summon up some in _this_ prison, too, if it meant scoring a few points off Kramer.

Kramer stood up and gestured Neal toward the door. Neal managed to stand and reach the door without coming in range of Kramer's hand on his back. The memory of Peter's hand on his back, warm and solid and comforting, surged unbidden into Neal's mind and he shoved it irritably away. There was no point in wanting what he couldn't have right now—he needed to concentrate on getting back what he had lost.

He opened the door and went through it, then waited for Kramer to take the lead, but Kramer motioned him forward, herding him down the hallway, toward the staircase. Neal put on his best "professional" smile—polite, composed—and tried to think of this as just another undercover job. The problem was, this _wasn't_ undercover. Everyone here would know him, know things _about_ him, and not in a good way, perhaps. Melissa was here, also, and he suspected that she wouldn't exactly be a fount of sympathy now that he was here in _her_ world.

Feeling exposed, Neal picked his way down the stairs and saw that every eye—every eye in the office—was fixed on him. Well, him _and_ Kramer. Lacking different instructions, Neal walked down to the main floor where everyone else was. He had resisted the urge to look around to see what Kramer was doing, so he didn't know that Kramer had stopped at the landing and was addressing everyone from the railing until he heard him speak. He turned around and looked up, thinking of all the times he had looked up to see Peter beckoning to him with that two-fingered summons. He felt a surge of fury, then sorrow, and struggled to keep his face serene.

"Good morning, everyone," Kramer said genially, his good manners on display. "Glad to be back and very glad to see how much you've accomplished while I've been gone." Maybe he was hypersensitive to it, but Neal thought he detected just a hint of a threat in Kramer's comment. He had spent the morning going over files—had that been more to keep tabs on what his people had been doing—or not doing—while he was gone than a desire to reacquaint himself with what the office had going? More than a couple of people shifted uneasily and Neal tried to memorize faces. It might be worth knowing who _else_ was uncomfortable here.

"I know the rumor mill has probably been working overtime," Kramer said, striving for humorous and coming across reproving, "so I'm sure you've all heard by now that we have a new worker here at DC Art Crimes—Neal Caffrey. Some of you have _met_ Neal, and the rest of you, I think, know him by reputation, so I don't think I need to tell you…better lock up your valuables!" He smiled, a fatuous little smirk that made a couple of people blink in surprise before curving their lips into the semblance of a smile. Neal felt his face flush at the unexpectedness of the attack, but he braved it as best he could. He put his hands in his pockets, looked at his toes in mock-bashfulness and smiled.

"Not _everything_," he said, looking up and shifting his smile from "professional" to "mischievous." "Just the good stuff. I _do_ have a reputation to uphold."

There were smiles and grins all around, but most of them were quickly hidden. Neal didn't have to see Kramer's face to know he had squelched their amusement with a glare. So…Kramer wasn't above a low blow in public, but he was obviously more practiced at dishing it out than he was at taking it. _Good to know_, Neal thought. At this point, anything and everything was good to know.

"Seriously, though," said Neal, and tamped his smile back to "genuine." "It's very nice to meet you." He shook a few hands near him—firm grip, eye contact, dry palm. "That is—I _hope _to be meeting all of you very soon." This said to make them all aware that _he_ was aware that Kramer would probably try to oversee most of his contact with everyone. He saw a couple of eyebrows raise in surprise or bemusement, quickly masked, but he was taking mental notes. They were watching him, waiting to see what he was like, waiting to see what he would _do_. One of these people just might be his ticket to the outside world, and he was going to make every contact count.

,


	4. Chapter 4

"Anything you could tell me would be great," Clinton said. He had stepped out of the office, ostensibly for a meeting, but the truth was he didn't want his conversation to be overheard. In the wide open spaces of their office, his deep baritone tended to carry, so he thought it wisest to take this line of inquiry not just outside the office, but _outside_ the building.

"He's a model prisoner," said the voice on the other end of the line. "Doesn't make trouble. Doesn't get mouthy. Well—he complains about the library a lot."

Jones smiled in spite of himself. He'd definitely met a better class of criminal since coming to White Collar. "If we came out, do you think he'd see us?"

Jones could hear the man on the other end of the phone shrug. "Can't think why not. He's not going anywhere, and he's got nothing better to do. When do you think you'll come?"

"Let me get back to you on that, Shaughnessy. I've got to take care of some things at the office, and then I'll let you know when I'm coming, okay?"

"Sounds good."

Clinton started to hang up. "Hey, Jones," said Shaun. "How'd you ever get onto _this_ case? What's White Collar's interest in this one? Have there been any new developments?"

_Plenty of new developments_, Clinton wanted to say, but he didn't want to have to explain. "Maybe," he said. "It's a little too soon to say. We're just trying to be sure we cover all the angles."

Kramer could hardly acknowledge Neal's comment without owning his own smallness in the original jibe, but he made his displeasure plain all the same. After a few moments—a very few moments—of saying hello to his fellow workers, Kramer descended the steps and Neal was called back to his side. As far as Neal could tell, it was for no other reason than to keep him from talking to others while Kramer did a stultifying office briefing.

_He doesn't have good report with his people_, Neal realized, and was surprised—a least a little. Peter had good people skills. He would tell you he didn't, that he was no politician, but Peter knew how to reach people, how to treat them with respect. Neal knew Peter had admired Kramer—his skill, his tenacity, the depth of his knowledge—but he hadn't expected to find the man so…unpersonable beneath all the surface charm. To all outward appearances, Phil Kramer was charming, his manners impeccable. He played that Southern deference to his advantage without actually giving any ground. While there was a lot to _admire_, there hadn't been that much to _like_.

For confidence men, likeability was the coin of the realm, and Neal had made a study of how to make himself appealing to others. The fact that he was naturally appealing—indeed, the fact that he was good-looking—was a bonus, but hardly necessary. Some of the most successful con men Neal had ever known were as ugly as homemade sin! Kramer had a ready wit, an easy charm but there was something hard-edged and cutting around those deceptively mild eyes.

While Neal watched, Kramer called on each team in turn to make accounting for their current project or projects and, by listening closely, Neal was able to pair up names and faces for a handful of agents. He saw Melissa near the back of the clump of people on the left. She was looking at him, a thoughtful expression on her face, but there was—surprisingly—no malice in her eyes. When the meeting concluded but before Kramer could hustle him back up the stairs, she made her way over to him and held out her hand.

"Very nice to see you again, Mr. Caffrey," she said. "How are things in the White Collar Division?" Her words were cordial, but her eyes were intense. Aware of Kramer's hard eyes on his back, Neal smiled perfunctorily and shook her hand.

"Nice to see _you_ again, Agent Matthews," he said, hoping he was conveying his genuine contrition without alerting Kramer that they knew each other except casually. "I…things in the White Collar Division are…very far away." He smiled, but hoped she'd see the bleak truth in his face.

"I'm sure you'll find _lots_ to do here to keep you busy," she said, then pressed his hand and excused herself. His mind awhirl, Neal tried to decide if she was trying to tell him something or not, but he didn't have much time to dwell on it. He shook the hand of a short, earnest agent with fiery red hair.

"Hiya, Neal," he said. "I'm Harley Scooperton. Most folks just call me Scooter."

"Very nice to meet you, Agent Scoo—"

"Scooter, please."

"Okay, Scooter. Thanks."

A tall, balding fellow with sad brown eyes shook his hand with a nice firm grip. "I hear you're quite the whiz kid," the agent said. "I'm Reynolds. I sure hope you're as good as they say you are."

Neal leaned in and dropped his voice. "Me, too," he said. "Nothing like pressure to make you crack."

It seemed to be the right note, for Reynolds smiled and moved on. His place was instantly taken by a young woman who extended her exceptionally well-manicured hand.

"I'm Chandra Dunkirk," said a thirty-something woman with dark skin and two bronze French braids that ended in a neat bun at her neck. Her suit was perfectly tailored, and her sculpted pumps were worth more than the suit Neal was wearing. "I take care of everybody around here," she said.

"I'll…look forward to that," Neal said. "You're…you're the Admin," he said. "She-who-must-be-obeyed." It was a longshot, and it could have backfired badly. Going half on chance and a third on instinct and the rest wishful thinking, Neal had dredged up an overheard conversation Melissa had had on the phone during her time in New York.

To his relief, the young woman grinned, revealing a deep dimple in her left cheek. "I see _my_ reputation precedes _me_ as well," she said. "You don't _have_ to obey me, but most agents here find that their lives run smoother if they do."

"Even Agent Kramer?" Neal murmured, and was rewarded when there was a flicker of genuine surprise on her lovely face.

"Even Agent Kramer," she whispered, then moved on.

There was no telling how many of them would have come by to meet him, to shake his hand. There was no telling because, as soon as possible, Kramer interrupted the line of agents and whisked Neal away, a hand on his back. Funny how different it felt to be steered along by Kramer's hand on his back instead of Peter's. The space between his shoulderblades felt hot and itchy afterwards, although Neal convinced himself it was all in his mind. It was back to Kramer's office in the uncomfortable chair, but at least—this time—he had something to do.

"Tell me what you think of those," Kramer had said, and gave him a couple of folders. There was no file name on the folders and no file notes, but each manila folder held a photograph of a painting. "Tell me what you know about the provenance of these," Kramer said, then sat down at his desk and opened a file.

Neal looked at the folders in some surprise and confusion. "I…don't usually work from photos," Neal said. "Do we have access to the actual art?"

"Try," said Kramer. "Tell me what you can from the photos."

Neal fought down his rising sense of humiliation. This felt like some sort of mean-spirited test, impossible to do well with the shackles put upon him—either that or busy-work to keep him out of mischief while Kramer thought about where to stash him, out of sight and out of mind. For a moment, Neal allowed himself to think of what Peter might be doing at that exact moment, if only to remind himself that he was both wanted and needed _somewhere_. Although it gave him a sharp pang of misery, it also cheered him. He might be out of Peter's sites, but he knew he wasn't out his mind. Peter would _fix_ this. Peter would fix this just like he had fixed everything else since he had accepted Neal's deal. He just had to think of this as a mission—just had to think of this as his job—getting through this until Peter and Jones and Diana dug up the truth and figured out how to bring him home.

Neal stared at the first picture carefully, even going over to the window where the light was strongest and purest. The brush strokes were interesting—something familiar about them, or _wrong_. It niggled at him, teasing the edge of his consciousness. He took a deep breath and did his best to clear his mind, to think of nothing at all but the art, the artist, the hand that brushed—

Kramer's voice was surprisingly close to his ear. "Here," he said, handing Neal a powerful magnifying glass. "This might help."

"Thank you," Neal whispered automatically, unnerved by not having heard Kramer's approach. He swallowed, his mouth dry. Had he lost his edge under Peter's watch? He wondered. He had thought not, but perhaps…. He put the glass to his eye and looked at the photograph again, looking at the burgeoning colors in the skin-tones. _Ah_! _Now_ he remembered….

"Take it _back_!" Mozzie demanded. Sara managed to insert herself between the short, bespectacled man and the wizened, cigar-smoking bookie he was trying to throttle and get Mozzie to loosen his death-grip on the man's neck. The man coughed and sputtered a little, waving his cigar around dramatically, but proceeded to put the foul thing back between his lips almost immediately, so he couldn't have been _that_ short of breath. Sara looked at Mozzie in exasperation.

"I asked you to let _me_ talk to him," Sara snapped. "And I can't talk to him if he'd _dead_."

Mozzie glared at the bookie. "You take it back, Franco, or so help me—"

"What?" the man laughed. "Take it back or your _girlfriend_ here will—argh! Ah! Ow! Owowow…." He trailed off into a low moan as Sara wrenched his arm a little higher behind his back.

"I'm not his girlfriend, Franco, but I am _with_ him. I understand you may have some information that I need, and I don't have time to wait around while you two chest beat and take out measuring sticks."

"Sure," the little man panted. "Just tell me what you want to know. If I know, I'll tell you. If I _don't_—ahh!" Sara gave his arm a tug and he whimpered. "If I don't know, I'll find out, okay?"

Sara smiled a brilliant smile at a sulking Mozzie. "You said he'd be helpful," she said. "You were so right!" She leaned down and murmured her question into Franco's not-especially-clean ear. His eye widened in surprise, and he turned and looked at her despite her hold on his arm.

"You—you want me to tell him _what_?" he asked.

Sara repeated it, and then she named a price. Franco's mouth dropped open and he didn't move, even when she released him. Sara looked at Mozzie and gave him a quick, hopeful smile.

Franco seemed to regain his senses. "I…I'll make sure the message gets to him," he said. "How can I get in touch with…" His eyes sought out Mozzie, who refused to acknowledge him, but Sara leaned down and tucked a business card into the pocket of his loud plaid shirt.

"Call me," she said. "I'm easy to find." She turned to go. "C'mon Mozzie," she said, but he didn't move, staring at Franco's neck like he was wishing he still had his hands around it.

"He called me a G-man's errand boy," Mozzie gritted. "I'm considering taking his head off his—"

"Oh for heaven's sake, apologize," she said to Franco, looking flabbergasted. "You're completely off the mark." She pointed at Mozzie. "_This man_," she said pointedly, "is wanted by one of the most dangerous FBI agents in the Bureau. He's practically public enemy number one." She looked at Franco, then back to Mozzie. "You said he was a reliable source of information, Moz," she said doubtfully. "How can I be sure—"

"I didn't mean it," Franco said. He reached out and patted Mozzie's arm. "I was just, you know, yanking his chain a little. I know he's dangerous." He smiled cringingly, and Mozzie looked mollified.

"Yeah, well, don't let me hear you say it again," Mozzie said. "Or…or I'll have my, um, _her_, come _back_!"

"Right, right—no problem. Sorry, okay? Sorry, Moz."

They left him rubbing his aching arm. When they were almost a block away, Mozzie looked up at her and smiled.

"You know, Sara—you're actually pretty handy, even _without_ your baton."

Sara smiled, the smile of an angel with slightly tarnished wings. "Legwork is fine," she said airily, "but sometimes you need a more hands-on approach."

When Neal had filled three notebook pages with neat, cryptic notes on the first photograph, he looked up to find Kramer regarding him with a small smile on his face. His delight in the process cooled immediately and the light of interest left his blue eyes as though a bulb had winked off somewhere. Neal looked away.

"So what can you tell me?" Kramer murmured. Neal pushed the pages across the desk toward him, saying nothing. The older man picked up the pages automatically, but frowned. "Neal?"

"Everything's in my notes there," Neal said, refusing eye contact. He felt itchy and irritable, frustrated and miserable. He had felt a moment's respite looking at the art, but he had no desire to talk through his findings with Kramer.

"Anything stand out? Anything…interesting?"

"You don't need me to say it. You don't even need my notes. You're just—" He bit off what he'd been about to say, made himself relax and stand still and quiet.

"I'd rather hear it from you," Kramer said. His voice was surprisingly gentle, but Neal didn't respond at first.

"I'd rather be in New York," said Neal, staring at the floor.

Kramer said nothing for a long time, but when he did start to speak, Neal cut him off.

"I need to go to the restroom," he said flatly. "And since I've only got one clean suit, you'd better let me go."

Before Kramer could say anything at all, Neal had turned and left the room.

,


	5. Chapter 5

"—brought your lunch," said El. She leaned down and kissed Peter's temple fondly and pressed a small bottle into his hand. He looked at it in surprise, then grinned. Migraine pills. _Yep—__**those**__ might make a dent in his headache._

"Thanks, Hon," he said, and stretched to get a real kiss. She allowed it, then moved away. "I'm just going to drop in and see Reese before I go," she said. She pointed at the paper sack in her hand and mouthed, "chocolate-chip cookies." Peter grinned at her, glad she understood his obsession with seeing this through. Whatever Neal had done, whatever his past may have been, he was _trying. Heck, in the past year, they'd seen more __**agents**__ go afoul of the law than criminals—well, __**almost**__._ Peter squirmed, wondering if he ought to include himself in that list. He knew Reese would back him if he could at all—he was as pissed about the loss of Caffrey as anyone else—and this had the shape and feel of a turf war to him. Most people _didn't_ try to poach folks out of _his_ office—not and _brag_ about it, anyway. Still, he'd cautioned Jones and Diana that as much as possible, _everything_ they were doing needed to happen outside office hours. Official inquiries could take time on the clock, but everything else needed to be not only off the clock, but off the _radar_.

Peter watched El go, watched her greet Reese warmly and offer the bag of treats. Reese motioned her to a seat and El refused, but they stood in the doorway of Reese's office and chatted for a few moments, then she turned and looked instinctively toward her husband's office. They exchanged smiles, and El made a little gesture with her eyebrows that told him she'd have something to tell later, when he was home. She blew him a kiss and was gone.

It's a cliché, but Neal really did feel better after lunch. There hadn't been _anything_ in the little apartment that resembled food, nothing that appealed to Neal that morning with his stomach all churned up, but when Kramer suggested lunch, Neal had not had a hard time saying "no." He had done it, had refused to accept Kramer's food if it came with Kramer's presence, but one of the other agents, seeing his plight, gave him half a hoagie and sat down across from him. It proved to be Reynolds, who smiled at Neal as he unwrapped his half of the sandwich.

"I won't say I hope you aren't picky," said the agent dryly. "I _will_ say, 'I hope you're hungry.''' The sandwich was crammed with every meat and cheese and vegetable the bun would hold.

"This looks great," said Neal, pushing his knees under the little break table. "Thanks." Without Kramer accompanying him, Neal was stuck in the office for lunch, but it hardly mattered. He had no money, no phone, not even his lousy credit card—he couldn't even offer to buy chips. He found glasses in the cabinet and got them each a glass of water from the cooler.

Although many of the agents had gone out to secure lunch, the little break room was busy. People came in and got coffee, retrieved their lunches from the fridge, used the microwave. Many of them spoke in a friendly manner, and Neal could feel lots and lots of eyes on the back of his head, but most of them were kind enough to not intrude just for the sake of novelty.

"I know this wasn't what you had in mind, but it's a good office, good people," said Reynolds kindly. Neal smiled politely, noncommittally, wondering if Reynolds was the plant, the kindly tugboat who would help haul Neal into harbor.

"I listened to the briefing this morning—a lot of exciting cases going on." _And not a mortgage fraud case in sight!_

"We do get our share, and our agents are good at what they do."

Neal felt his competitive urges stir. He was good at what _he_ did, too.

"So, Agent Reynolds—"

"Dag, please. We're going to be colleagues." The kindness of that remark was unexpected, and Neal swallowed.

"Dag, then. What's your thing—pre-Columbian, right?"

Reynolds smiled. "You _were_ listening. I'd say…_yes_. That is one of the areas where I've gone rather deep." He smiled at Neal. "I understand you're more of a generalist," he said.

Neal fought the urge not to bristle, but the agent's next words surprised him. "And I hear you're good at just about everything."

Neal's anger quickly changed to pleased surprise and he smiled, blue eyes wide, but his voice, when he spoke, was wry. "I'm afraid the reality doesn't always live up to the hype," he said, charmingly self-deprecating.

The older agent chuckled, the expression comically at odds with his sad-faced demeanor. "I'm looking forward to seeing the real Neal Caffrey at work," said Dag, the steered the conversation on to more general topics.

Diana's own lunch experience was slightly different. This was, in fact, the third sit-down lunch she'd had that day—she could hardly even stand the_ sight_ of food—and she was about to _scream_ from the effort of making small talk, but the people she had called required a certain finesse if she was going to get anything useful.

"Little Diana—all grown up!" mused the woman across the table from her. Diana did her best to smile.

"Yes, Ma'am. All grown up and catching bad guys," she quipped, then worried her humor had been too blunt.

But to her relief, the older woman had laughed. "Well then," she said, her mouth curving into a wry smile, "you're probably _very_ busy! You've been a dear to take time out of your day to catch up with me." Her delicate, blue-veined hands played with the coffee cup in front of her lazily, but when she looked up at Diana, her grey eyes were piercing in their intensity. "I know _a little_ about what's going on in your office. Tell me, dear—what can I do to help you?"

Although the problem of Neal was on the top of everyone's mind, the members of Burke's 7 who actually worked at the White Collar division had other pulls on their attention. Despite what they felt, what they were worried about, work went on as usual. It was a testament to Peter's ability to compartmentalize that he was able to give a pretty fair imitation of himself all day. Agent Reese had called him in just after lunch, ostensibly to be brought up to date on their regular caseload, but actually to find out where things stood with Neal.

He listened with that complete absorption he was capable of, then leaned back at his desk and steepled his fingers.

"I do hope you know what you're getting your into," he said. "Kramer can be pretty formidable, Peter."

"I know that, Sir, and I'm willing to do this on my own time—"

"Hell's bells, Peter—stop with the 'Sir' and 'I'm ready to fall on my sword' crap. I'm _with_ you on this. I just can't be…_with_ you, if you know what I mean."

Peter visibly relaxed. "I think I do."

"You're going to have to do this outside of proper channels—you and…_all_ of you—don't tell me. I don't _want_ to know, and the less I know, the better—until it's time. And you're a fool if you don't assume that everything _you've_ thought of to get _around_ Kramer he hasn't already anticipated. There's not much I can do if you defy a direct order not to interfere with his C.I."

At the word "his," Peter had gathered himself, preparing to say something, but Reese waved it away. "Save it for the battlefield, Peter," he said. "I'm just looking at it the way a judge would look at it—from the point of view of _law_."

"I'm not _talking_ about the _law_," Peter gritted. "I'm talking about what's _right_."

"Agreed," Reese said levelly, "but you've been at this long enough that you know those two things aren't always the same."

They traded looks, and Peter nodded.

"Kramer threatened one of your agents, which means he threatened one of _my_ agents," Reese said. "If he crossed the line once, he's probably crossed it before. Bring me the evidence and I'll do everything I can to ram it home."

"Thank you, Sir—Reese."

"But Peter—" Peter stopped with his hand on the knob. "If Caffrey runs, there's nothing I can do to help. If you get me the evidence, we'll do our best to pry him out of Kramer's grasp, but if Neal doesn't wait for us, if he jumps the gun…." He did not finish the sentence.

"I understand, sir." He hesitated, and Reese sighed.

"What?"

"The way things are, there's no way for me to communicate with Neal. Kramer's blocked all access, so I don't see any way to tell him we're trying to come and get him."

At this, Reese actually smiled. If Kramer had been there to see it, that smile would have given him pause. "Peter, I've seen you and Caffrey work together for almost two years. These past few months…. Trust me—he knows you'll be coming for him."

"—horrible little place in Foggy Bottom. Used to be a house, but now it's chopped up into these tiny units. I think mine used to be a walk-in closet." Sometimes all you got out of a bad situation was a good story.

They had found him a desk—a temporary situation, he thought—and while some agents had given him a wide berth and disapproving looks, others had gone out of their way to be friendly, or at least kind. Agent Scooperton had stopped by on the way back from the bathroom to ask if Neal was moved in. Neal realized with some relief that while they all seemed to know that he wasn't here by choice, they weren't fully aware of his situation. He tried to think if he could use that knowledge to his advantage—especially since Kramer obviously didn't want it widely known.

"Near Georgetown, you say. Uh—coeds?" said Scooter, grinning. Agent Scooperton was a numbers guys—could've taken a spot in Accounting without blinking—but he had a passion for seeing artwork returned to its rightful homeland, and he was the best logistics guy they had. He could map out an escape route in his head faster than anyone Neal had ever seen, and his encyclopedic knowledge of the various modes of transport in major cities made him invaluable. Neal almost wished he'd had someone like Scooter on the other side—almost.

"Uh—noise?" countered Neal.

"Well, yeah," said Scooter, still grinning. "I guess it could be party central."

"Yeah, well, my party plans are pretty curtailed," Neal said. He was careful not to sound bitter or annoyed.

Scooter laughed. "You won't have to worry about a social life," he said ruefully. "Things are pretty busy here." He stood abruptly and left. Acting on instinct, Neal turned and saw Kramer looking down from above, an enigmatic expression on his face as he watched Scooperton walk away.

Neal took that piece of information and worried it around in his head. Scooter said they were busy and not to worry about a social life. Did that mean that _all_ the agents here were on a short leash, tethered to their desks? If so, then maybe they had some common goals—or at least _one_ common goal. Neal added that to his growing stack of information and tried to concentrate on the file in front of him.

"Yes," said June, sitting very properly in the travel agent's office. "I understand you book senior citizen tours to DC."

"Yes Ma'am, we do," said the man behind the counter, smiling at her and the generous length of leg her fashionable suit showed. "What are you, um, _interested_ in?"

"Oh, _art_ galleries," June said sweetly. She re-crossed her legs and smiled. "I'm very interested in _art_."

The office was almost empty. Peter wanted to be sure—to be _certain_—that no one could say he was shirking his own duties to deal with Neal, so he had made sure that every other case had been reviewed and _managed_ at whatever level was appropriate. Now, for the first time since early that morning, he truly felt like he could get something done.

He'd already talked to Diana, who was following up a couple of leads of her own. She had been low-key, but Peter had detected an air of suppressed excitement, so one of her leads must be taking her _somewhere_. "Be careful!" he'd admonished, but Diana had just smiled.

"I'll be careful. I'll be _ready_," Diana had said, and had left the White Collar office.

Now it was just him and Clinton, following up on _his_ day's work.

"There's something there that can help us," Clinton said earnestly. "I _feel_ it. As soon as I can get _out there_—"

"Just _find_ it," Peter said, motioning Clinton out the door as his phone began to buzz, but when he looked down, he almost fumbled the phone. His sharp intake of breath caused the other agent to turn. Peter beckoned him hastily with his hand, pointing at the phone even as he snatched it open.

"Kramer," he said, and there was suppressed fury in his voice. Clinton looked at him in surprise, and motioned for Peter to put the call on speaker phone. Peter did, but held the phone to his ear just the same.

"I thought I'd better get a hold of you before you go and do something stupid, something that might ruin the lives and careers of lots of agents in your office." Kramer's voice was raspy and genial, but there was steel beneath the velvet.

"Enough with the lecture. Where's Neal?"

"Safe. Busy. You don't need to worry about him."

"I want to talk to—"

"Peter—I'm not taking requests on this. I've told you—I'm doing this for your own good. And for Neal's own good. He needs better limits than you seem able to impose, and I'll make sure he gets them here in the Art Crimes Division. He'll be fine—you'll see—and so will you, once you get over your pride and see that I was right."

"You _can't do this_," Peter said. "Neal's deal was with _me_, and—"

"That's right—it _was_ with you. It's not with you any more. There's no sense in arguing about it. I called you as a courtesy, but I'm done being polite now."

Peter bit back the reply that was clamoring to burst out of his mouth. "What does _that_ mean?"

"That means that I'm done playing cat and mouse with you and your agents there. I'm going to give Neal back his phone, and I'm going to tell him not to call you. I'm telling _you_ not to contact him—not in any way possible. If you do—if you persist in undermining what I'm doing here, then the consequences will not be pretty."

"Are you _threatening_ me?"

"I'm _informing_ you. I'm telling you what I expect. Neal is under my supervision now, and if he refuses a direct request not to be in contact with you or _anyone from White Collar_, then the consequences of him disobeying me are…pretty severe...for Neal. Do you understand me?"

"I understand," said Peter. He forced himself to answer civilly, but he wanted to climb through the phone and wring Kramer's neck.

"Good—because if you don't, you'll only be hurting Neal."

"Kramer…!" Peter's voice was tight, his nostrils flared with suppressed fury.

"And the same goes for _any_ of your agents from White Collar—the ones who are listening in on our conversation right now."

Clinton reacted as though slapped. Peter said nothing, but he had grown very still, his free hand on his hip, glaring at the phone.

"Neal's talented and an asset, but he's not worth risking their careers over, is he?"

"It's not right!"

"It's what _is_." There was a silence. "Do the right thing, Petey—do the right thing for Neal."

He clicked off before Peter could respond.

,


	6. Chapter 6

"Get in," said Sara. Mozzie looked furtively around and dived into Sara's car.

"Sara!" he admonished. "You can't just…just _pluck_ me off the street corner like that. Someone might see us!"

"You didn't mind being seen with me earlier today," she said, whipping the little car in and out of traffic.

"That was when people thought you were my muscle," he said primly, and Sara smiled her predatory smile.

"As long as they don't think I'm your _girlfriend_," she said.

"Heaven forbid!" Mozzie exclaimed, but at Sara's look of outrage, he hastened on. "I mean, it would be, um, _unprofessional_ of me to, um, be, um, on _those_ kind of terms with my, er, muscle."

"Yes, there's _that_," said Sara dryly, but inwardly she was smiling. Mozzie's internal ethics were sometimes weird, but never boring.

"Where are we off to?" he asked.

"Don't you usually want to know that before you step into a car?" Sara teased. Mozzie's face flamed red.

"Usually," he said, "but you have an honest face."

Sara laughed out loud. "Mozzie," she said, "if I ever have to sell ice to Eskimos…."

Neal sat at his borrowed desk and looked through the slim stack of files he'd been given earlier that day. It had been a long day—a very long day—but Kramer had not said he could go. Neal was sure—was _certain_—that leaving without permission was going to be on the list of things that got him in trouble. Until he knew more about his situation here—what Kramer had on him and what it could mean for him in terms of sentencing—he was doing his damnedest to not make waves. If push came to shove, he could still try to capsize the boat, but the best plans were usually the simplest.

Chandra walked by and smiled at him, a brilliant, run-way worthy smile that could blind you at 20 paces. "Goodnight, Neal," she said cheerily. "I went easy on you today, but tomorrow, I have a _mountain_ of paperwork for you to do!"

"I'll look forward to that," said Neal, and Chandra laughed.

"Now I _know_ you're a liar," she said, but without any sting in it. She waved as she went to the elevators.

Neal stood up, then sat again, restless and miserable. There had been _some_ good things about today. At least, there had been some things that had not been bad, but Neal couldn't escape the rat-in-a-maze feeling that hovered over him. Kramer obviously wanted him here—wanted him for reasons that seemed to include more than revenge, but revenge was definitely somewhere on the list. Kramer wanted to command Neal's talent, demand it as his due, and Neal felt his hackles rise each time that happened. Again, Neal contrasted the way Kramer made everything an obligation to the way Peter allowed agents (and him) to have some choice, some buy-in on the projects they worked on. True, it wasn't _always_ possible to give agents choices or to let them have a say in what they worked on, but Neal had been in meeting after meeting where agents jumped for the cases they wanted. No one here seemed to have even the level of choice that _he_ had had as a lowly C.I. Again, he realized he had truly not appreciated what he'd had. What had Clinton said? "Your life is a dream with an anklet attached," or some such. It remained to be seen whether or not this dream was going to turn into a nightmare.

He saw Kramer come out of his office and stood, ready to go down to the car, but there was something tight and angry in the set of Kramer's shoulders and Neal withdrew warily behind a façade of indifference. Kramer descended the stairs and came over to him, his eyes brooding and angry, but Neal could tell almost at once that this wasn't directed at him—not really. To his complete surprise, Kramer stopped in front of him and handed him first his watch, then his wallet and, finally, his phone.

"If you try to contact anyone from White Collar," Kramer said without preamble, "I will make it my job to derail their career. Do you understand me?"

Neal swallowed and nodded. "Yes sir," he said, although in truth his mind was _already_ thinking of the possibilities.

"I think you understand now that I can make your time here easy, or I can make your time here difficult." He looked at Neal, waiting for acknowledgement.

"I understand my position here."

"If _you_ screw up, if you buck me, it will come back on your friends. That's a promise. I can't watch you every minute, but I won't be played. If you buckle down, settle in and do your job here, it will be better for everyone. Agreed?"

Neal managed to nod stiffly, but he couldn't make himself agree. _Better_ was him in White Collar, helping Peter solve cases, learning and teaching at the same time, being part of something good. Here, at best, he was just a cog in a wheel—a tool on Kramer's belt.

But better _was_ having a phone again, and as soon as he figured out _how_, he'd be sure to tell Peter what he'd learned.

Peter delivered his news over Thai take-out, and it put a damper on the entire evening. Still, there were other, more encouraging reports, and the day and a half's worth of work wasn't for naught.

June had started on a plan of her own, and Sara and Mozzie obviously had something going they couldn't talk about. Peter tried not to think too much about that. Diana had learned a few useful things from her contacts, although how they were going to use them, he didn't know yet, and he and Clinton had both made some progress.

For the time being, they had all agreed not to try to contact Neal, but to work the systems and channels they had. If they _did_ turn up anything promising, the last thing they needed was for someone to rat them out to Kramer and haul Neal back under on charges he broke his agreement with Kramer.

_Agreement, hah!_ Even the thought of it made Peter's blood boil. At least with _him_, he and Neal had both agreed to the terms. Admittedly, they had both agreed to things they hadn't kept, but they had managed to stay true to the intent of the partnership. Peter doubted that what Kramer was inflicting on Neal was anything like a partnership, but he hoped Neal would be smart enough to play along, to follow the rules and give them a chance to unseat this through official—well, maybe _un_official—channels.

He saw everyone to the door, thanked them for their efforts and turned to find Elizabeth gazing at him with such pride and affection that he felt himself blush like a schoolboy. She could still _do_ that to him, make him bashful—at least until they were completely alone. _Then_, neither of them were bashful. Elizabeth stepped into his arms, then stretched on tiptoe to kiss him. It was a lovely kiss, full of affection and comfort and promise. Peter caught her up against him, his mouth opening over hers, and lost himself—lost himself and found himself in the arms of the woman he loved.

Neal had gotten out of the taxi and walked straight into his apartment. He was itching to explore his radius—it was still just two miles, but it was a _different_ two miles than he'd had before and had, at least, the benefit of novelty. But with Kramer hovering over him like a fog, he thought it best to just go home, go _in_ and stay put.

The phone was burning a hole in his pants pocket, then his hand. _Never_ had a phone held more promise or threat, and he finally put it down on a countertop and moved away from it as though to say, "out of sight, out of mind." After a moment, he took the phone and, with pen and paper, copied out every piece of information the phone held. Now, no matter what happened, he'd have contact numbers, even if Kramer took the phone away again. He knew, however, that Kramer would undoubtedly keep tabs on every number that had been in this phone. He was grateful—again—that he had only talked to Mozzie on burner phones, and that those numbers could not lead Kramer to his confident and friend. Neal wondered what Mozzie was doing. He wondered what Peter was doing. He wondered what Sara was thinking about _right now…._

He got up, needing to move, and looked in the cabinets again, but nothing new had appeared. He had his wallet now—access to his bank account and charge card—and he thought that Kramer could hardly object to groceries. He stood up, pocketing the phone, then taking it out and setting it on the counter in the kitchen. It was too tempting. If he left the confines of this little room, the desire to call Peter or Mozzie or El or June would simply be too strong. Neal knew well his tendency to do things because he could, but _this_ he could not do. He _would not_ do anything to jeopardize the careers of the people he had worked with before, would not bring down disaster on their heads because his own life was in shambles. He would just have to find another way of getting home.

"Thanks for staying over, Mozzie," said June. "It makes the house seem more…homey, having someone in Neal's room." It was hard to believe he had only been gone a little more than a day. Kramer's words, relayed at the meeting that night, had made it obvious that the separation was designed to be permanent. Well, design or no, they were going to find some way of bringing their boy home.

"No problem, June," said Mozzie. He had cooked for them, as much a practicality as anything. Neal had not only left clothes in the closet, but food in the fridge and cabinets. Someone would have to eat it, and it didn't look as though it was going to be Neal.

When the dishes were washed, Mozzie walked June downstairs, her hand tucked under his arm, then returned to Neal's room. He lay down on the couch and took off his glasses, closed his eyes and _thought_. There had to be something—something obvious—that they could do to get word to Neal, to tell him to hang tight.

Alone in the dark, Mozzie worried that Neal might, conversely, forget about them. Neal was amazingly adaptable. His ability to blend had made him a good con man, but he hadn't _developed_ it as a con man. As far as Mozzie could tell, it was an innate talent honed to a fine point, a natural gift polished to a shine. Up in DC, Neal would be surrounded by art—by art puzzles and art heists and art-oriented agents. Mozzie had long worried about Neal's obvious inclination to "go native" in the White Collar Division. If Neal's deal with Peter had been in the FBI's Art Crimes Division, it would have been a _done_ deal by now, and Neal would have been as lost to him as, well, as he was _now_.

But it wasn't, it hadn't been. Mozzie fretted for several minutes, worried that he had not only lost Neal to the other side, but to the other side _without him_, but after a moment, his brow unfurrowed and his face cleared. If he hadn't lost Neal to where Peter was, the he wasn't going to lose him to another FBI office. Working with Peter had long been more important than the job itself, although Neal had never tried to deny that the job held quite an appeal (excepting mortgage fraud). Mozzie knew that, however much the lure of working surrounded by art every day, it would never compare to being with people who cared about him for _him_. And Mozzie knew that Neal would never, _ever_ have a chance to be himself with Kramer.

,


	7. Chapter 7

Try as he might, Peter could not get up to the previous day's optimism. El had sensed his unhappy mood that morning over breakfast even though he had tried to hide it from her. She had kissed him gently as she left and had not tried to jolly him out of his bad news.

He drunk his coffee determinedly, read the sport section without remembering anything he read and left for the office at an indecently early hour. Lots to do, lots to do, and no guarantees.

He'd caught his own taxi into work, which was better than being picked up by Kramer, but it meant he'd have to sport the cost on his own. Still, with decent coffee in him—a luxury on his budget—and his own clothes on, Neal felt like the day at work boded better than yesterday. In the short term, good, or at least better, but in the long term—_if_ there was a long term, he was no closer to home, or even word of it.

He had thought, somehow, that Peter would have _fixed_ this by now, would have pulled some magic string and come up here to bring him home. He realized how ridiculous that sounded, but it sounded pretty good all the same. He had thought Peter—or Mozzie—might have found a way to defeat the radio silence he was on, but so far there had been no cryptic notes under his door (he'd checked), no tapes that would self-destruct once the message was played. He grinned at his own silliness, but it was a grim sort of grin.

He wondered what June would do with his room if he…. No sense going down that path. Best to stay on the path he was on, and the path he was on ended at the Art Crimes Division of the FBI. Neal got out, paid the taximan and walked into the building. He tried to remember to smile.

_Good thing I've been faithful to my cardio,_ Clinton Jones thought as he barreled down the hallway on the trail of an escaping art thief. He didn't think there was any chance of the man escaping, but some of these old buildings had hidey-holes or hidden exits that you couldn't see. He wanted to keep the man on the run until he ran right into the arms of the agents waiting below, and he rounded the corner to find that their target had run right into the arms of Agent Blake. Blake had the cuffs on him, his Opie-Taylor face split wide with a grin.

"That's the way to run them down, Jones," he said. "Right into the net."

Their suspect made a rude comment and Blake turned and hustled him out to the waiting car. Clinton took a minute to walk, getting his breath back, then took a deep, steadying breath and hauled out his phone to dial.

It was answered on the third ring. "Yeah, Shaughnessy—Clinton Jones here. I'm not going to make it today. I'm coming, though—soon as I can."

"Okay—he's not going anywhere. What happened? Somebody sell the Brooklyn Bridge again?"

"Something like that," said Clinton. "It's not the size, it's the _location_ that everybody likes!"

Shaughnessy laughed. "That's not what _I_ hear," he quipped, then signed off. Clinton took another deep breath and swung his arms, working off some of the tension. The paperwork on this thing was going to take the better part of the afternoon. He frowned. If Caffrey were here, he'd get it done in half the time. The man was awfully good at paperwork.

_Which is exactly why he's a Confidential Informant in the __**first**__ place_, Clinton reminded himself. Well, no rest for the wicked or the weary. He started thinking about what he was going to put into his report.

"My real area of interest is Modernist and Post-Impressionist work," Agent Matthews said, plopping down with Neal in the kitchenette. "Not that you asked."

Neal looked over at the young woman sitting catty-cornered from him and his misery and regret were so evident that she immediately felt sorry for being snarky with him. She colored and looked down, then started to speak. "Neal, I—"

"Agent Matthews, what I did was wrong," Neal said, his voice pitched very low. "I put you in a terrible position and I'm sorry."

She was quiet for a moment—they both were—but to all appearances they were just co-workers sharing a lunch break, not former co-workers having a quarrel. Neal thought that he had, perhaps, underestimated how good she might be at undercover work.

"It _was_ wrong," Melissa said at last, but her smile was genuine. "But I do understand why you did what you did." She did not move her head, but her eyes darted quickly toward Kramer's office and back.

"I was worried something would happen," Neal began, then stopped.

"Something did," Melissa said gently. "And probably not something you deserved."

Neal smiled wanly. "Glad you think so, Agent—"

"Please. It's Melissa. No need to start being formal now. Is it—I guess you miss your office," she ventured. Neal merely nodded. He didn't think he could talk about it, not with someone who knew him, even a little. Melissa seemed to sense his misery without him saying it. "This is not a bad office," she said earnestly. "We do a lot of important things here. What does Agent Kramer…I mean, what are you working on right now?"

Neal shrugged. He could talk about _the_ work better than he could talk about work itself. "I'm looking at a couple of pieces to see if they could have been stolen from the original artist's stores."

"Modern pieces?"

"No—Cubist. They've never been authenticated. They think these might be the work of Georges Braque, a contemporary of—"

"I know who he is," said Melissa dryly, and Neal blushed.

"Sorry. I'm used to explaining a lot more where I…where I _was_."

"Understandable," she said matter-of-factly, "but you won't have to do that _here_. We're _all_ arty here." She smiled at him. "Maybe these are your people, Neal," she said, then smiled as another agent approached. "Hi Andrew—want to join us? This is Neal Caffrey, the new C.I. Neal, this is Andrew Dack. His thing is—"

"I like it all," said the tall, rangy agent. He sat down in the chair across from Neal. "But what I really like is catching people who _steal_ art." He gave Neal a hard look, but Neal met his eyes mildly.

"You must be very busy," said Neal. He turned back to his food and did not make eye contact again. _Something_ must have been going on while he stared at his plate, for Agent Dack cleared his throat.

"Sorry," he said. "I—we're all on the same team here, right?"

"Right," said Melissa firmly, then cast a worried glance at Neal.

"That's the story I was told," Neal said, then smiled his best, hey-we're-all-friends-here smile, the smile that had kept him from being shot more times than he cared to think about. He reached across the table and offered his hand. Dack took it, looking sheepish, and his grip was firm and friendly.

"Maybe you can help me with a problem I'm working on," Andrew said.

Neal looked up politely. "Oh?" Being helpful meant others might reciprocate.

"I want to know how they're getting it out of the country," he said, learning forward excitedly. "We _know_ how they're getting the art. We know where they're _selling_ it. What I _don't know_ is how they're getting it out of the U.S."

"How much time between—?" Neal began, but Melissa held up her hand.

"No shop talk at lunch," she insisted. "Talk about football or something."

"Sorry, not my field of expertise," said Neal dryly.

"It's baseball season," said their colleague. "Sheesh, Melissa—join the real world." He looked at Neal. "You follow baseball?"

"Yeah," Neal heard himself saying, thinking of Peter, thinking of all those days and nights in the van and a hundred stories of pitches and catches and stealing home. "I follow when I can."

"Who do you like?"

Neal shrugged. "The Yankees—who else?" _If Peter could see me now…._

"That's what I like to hear!"

Melissa grinned and ate her lunch.

"But June," said Mozzie. "They'll _know_ you. If you try to contact Neal it will screw things up big-time. He's not allowed to have contact with us—with _any_ of us." While Mozzie might have taken umbrage at being considered no more dangerous than, say, Jones, he did not at all mind being considered _not more formidable_ than June.

"But I'm _not_ going to try to contact Neal," June said, and smiled.

"I know that smile," said Mozzie. He grinned. "I _love_ that smile. Tell me what you've got going!"

Sara changed shoes in the car. If she was going to have to roughhouse with anyone, she wanted to do it in shoes she could run in, and while four-and-a-half-inch stilettos made her legs look _fabulous_, she could book it much faster in four-inch wedges. She slid the ankle strap in place, checking the solid feel of the baton in her clutch and opened the car door. She stepped out onto the curb, noting without seeming to the cameras that recorded everyone who came into the building. So there would be a video of this meeting—_good_. She didn't see how it could hurt.

"I know," said Elizabeth into the phone. She was bustling around the storehouse checking that everything that was going to the party tonight was counted and ready. "I know exactly what you mean."

She paused, counting tins of caviar. This was going to be one of the more high-end parties this month.

"No," she said. "I don't believe it. You'll have to send me pictures. I had no idea she was in _college_ already. It seems like only yesterday that we—I know! I know. Imagine! If I hadn't seen that article in the paper, I never would have found you! We really _must_ get together, soon, but of course my catering business keeps me pretty busy here in—DC? Why, yes—I _do_ cater parties in DC. I have an arrangement with a caterer up there to tag-team on some events, and then if _he_ has clients that come _here_—what? Yes—yes, of _course_. I'd be delighted to talk to you about prices. I _love_ gallery openings…."

Kramer stood looking out his window at the DC skyline, his thoughts dark. He had had some of his people running Neal's phone records, but according to them, Neal had _not_ called anyone at home in New York—not last night, and not today. It was what he'd demanded. It was what he _wanted_. _Why_ was he not satisfied now that he _had_ it?

He pushed a button on his phone, and Chandra's voice answered promptly.

"Yes, Agent Kramer. What can I do for you?"

"Did Neal fill out all the paperwork you had for him?"

"He did, sir. Everything except the things that you have to—"

"That's fine. That's fine," Kramer said, but he didn't close the line.

"Sir? Anything else?"

Kramer pulled at the corners of his mouth, thoughtful and brooding. "Yes," he said at last. "Send me Agent Matthews."

,


	8. Chapter 8

"I know, Bruce," Peter argued, pacing the bedroom floor. "I understand he's within his rights. I just want to—" He stopped pacing and listened, shook his head and then realized Bruce couldn't see it. "No—it doesn't have to be by phone. Hell, Bruce, it doesn't even have to be _me_. I just want to get a message to him." Peter's head jerked. "What? What do you mean, no _messages_? Kramer said—_Kramer said?_—have you _talked_ to Kramer about this? Whose side are you—damn it, I will not—" He stopped and pushed a hand through his hair. "Fine," he said at last. "Fine. Just _fine_. _You_ do it. That will be great. As long as—right, right. When?" There was a silence. "When, Bruce? When are you going to—well, it _does_ matter, it would matter a whole hell of a lot if it were…fine. No, that's fine. Call me, won't you?" There was another silence. "Thanks Bruce. No—I mean it. Thanks. This has just…you know how I feel about my people. Right. Thanks. Thanks again." He hung up.

Elizabeth looked up from the book she had been pretending to read and looked at him. "The end of that conversation sounded better than the beginning."

"It was," Peter said, pacing again. "It was better—it wasn't _good_, but it was better."

She waited for him, letting him tell her in his own way. "Kramer says no phone calls and no messages, but Bruce promises to get a word to Neal."

"What word?" Elizabeth said. "What's Bruce going to tell him?"

They exchanged looks. Peter could hardly impart to Bruce that they were planning on getting Neal back one way or another—as long as it stuck. "He's…he's going to tell him we're concerned about him and how he's doing. That's the best we can do."

"Will Neal understand? Will he know you can't talk to him?"

Peter looked flummoxed for a moment. "He…he hasn't called _us_," he said at last. "I assumed he _couldn't_." Peter thought about it a moment. "Kramer probably told Neal he'll get in trouble if he calls us. At least, that what I assumed." The thought cheered him a little. Neal was, at least, following orders. But on the heels of that came another worry: How worried would Neal have to be to do exactly what Kramer said? _What_ did Kramer have on him? What did he _know?_ What evidence was hanging over Neal's head that might fall any moment? Peter knew of a few things. Would bringing Neal back to White Collar cause Kramer to drop another bomb—maybe even send Neal back to prison? There were too many questions and not enough answers.

Peter sighed, realizing he might just have to get used to it. He stopped pacing and looked to see Elizabeth watching him, her face suffused with tenderness. She patted the cover beside her. "Come to bed," she said gently. "We'll work on this again tomorrow."

Sara slid onto the barstool and smiled at the bartender. It so discombobulated the man that he overfilled the mug he held under the tap. The foam overflowed and he cursed, sidestepping the spill, then colored and clamped his mouth shut. He got a fresh stein, filled it and practically slammed it down in front of the customer who had ordered it, who looked at him in bafflement at the surly treatment. Sara pretended not to notice, tapping buttons on her phone, but when the bartender appeared in front of her she looked up and gave him another one of her dazzling smiles.

"What can I get you?" the man asked breathlessly.

"A white…um, how about a beer?" She didn't like the look of the wine glasses.

"Draft or bottle?"

"How 'bout a Sam Adams?"

"Sure thing." He trundled off.

"Figured you for the type that orders Chateau something-or-other," murmured a voice near her elbow. Sara started a little. She hadn't heard him come in, but she managed a smile and turned to face her companion.

"Stop speculating about my type," she said pleasantly, but her eyes were like flint. "Your boss said you might know something about…what we discussed."

"I might." The man smiled. The smile broadened when the bartender, upon seeing him, put a draft down in front of him without asking. "Thanks Joey." He turned and looked at Sara. "I know lots of things. If you're _nice_ to me—"

He had reached to put a hand on her knee, but that hand was now in agony. While appearing to reach for and clasp his hand with both of hers, she had his pinky finger bent back at an angle it didn't seem to want to go.

"I'm always nice," said Sara while the man tried not to whimper. "You know what else I always am? In a hurry." She smiled. "Do you have something for me, or do I tell your boss that our little deal is off?"

"Okay, okay—hell, woman—"

She applied pressure and he bit off the word.

"Sorry," he panted.

"That's better. Start talking."

"He…the word on the street says he was good for it, but that's just talk. What I found out was the guy what did it—the _real_ guy what did it—is a real piece of work. Fingers in all kinds of pies, heavy-duty connections. He's a good forger, but has a bad rep."

"For?" Sara asked. She had backed off the pressure on the man's finger.

"Turning on his partners," the man said. "Ratting people out." His disdain was obvious. Few people were as hated in the criminal world as snitches.

"So you're saying the guy who took the fall isn't the guy who did the forgery—is that right?"

"Smart dame," the man muttered.

"So…how do we _know_ this. How can we _prove_ this?"

"That's above my pay grade," said the man sullenly.

Sara released his hand, smiling sweetly all the while. She reached in her purse and saw the man tense—evidently news of her and her baton had made the rounds—but merely fished out a bill and dropped it on the counter.

She smiled at the man nursing his drink and his finger. "I'll tell your boss you were very helpful," she said, and walked out of the bar.

She got into the waiting taxi, glad to not have to drive, and the cab pulled into traffic without instructions.

"What'd you learn?" asked Mozzie's voice from the front seat.

"He didn't do it," said Sara. "He was framed." She leaned forward, her face earnest in the pale light coming into the cab from streetlights. "Mozzie—we can use this. I'm sure of it."

"Think we should tell the Suit?"

Sara bit her lip, thinking hard. "Not yet," she said. "I want to try to find out if I can prove it."

"He changed after that," Diana told Jones. "Everybody who knew him before and after said so." They had gone out together for a cup of coffee—any excuse to leave the office so they could talk—and now stood with their coats flapping around them in the wind and light rain.

"But Peter knew him _after_ that," Clinton argued. "He didn't know him before."

"It's not the same," Diana said. "He was Peter's mentor." Clinton looked doubtful, and she glared at him.

"I want you to think of the worst—most unpleasant—instructor you had at the Naval Academy—the biggest son of a bitch you can think of."

Clinton looked thoughtful for a moment.

"Well?"

"It's hard to choose _one_," Clinton said dryly, and Diana rolled her eyes.

"Just _pick_ one already."

"Fine! Okay, got it."

"Did you _like_ him?"

"Like him? What do you mean, did I _like_ him?" Jones was indignant. "He was impossible. He demanded perfection, and when we gave it to him, he demanded more!"

"Made a man out of you, didn't he?" She was grinning.

Clinton grinned back. "A soldier at least. I like to think I managed the other on my own. But what does General—oh. Oh. I see where you're going."

Diana smacked his arm. "Give the man a gold star."

"So…so you're saying that because he was Peter's teacher, well, _mentor_, that Peter sees him differently—"

"_Saw_ him differently," Diana corrected. "I'm pretty sure he sees him clearly _now_."

"You can say that again."

"You know what I'd like to say?"

Clinton's voice was resigned. "There's no telling."

"I'd like to say, 'I'm wet and cold and can we _please_ quit this cloak and dagger stuff for a while and go back to the office.' How's that?"

"Anything for a lady," said Clinton, and they turned back toward White Collar.

Peter tried to be patient. It wasn't his strong suit, not by a long stretch.

There were a lot of things happening, but none of them were happening quickly. Bruce's message—insouciant and bland though it was—had been delivered. Neal knew they were concerned about him, at least. Peter tried to remind himself that he had sent Neal undercover in _much_ more dangerous situations than this. Here, Neal's personal safety was not at stake, but there _were_ bigger issues at stake.

In the two years since they'd worked together, Peter would have had to be blind not to see the changes that had taken place in Neal. He remembered like it was yesterday the time that Neal had admitted that he trusted _no one_—_no one at all_—but that he trusted Peter. Peter, who had grown up in a family as unremarkable as it seemed possible to have, had nevertheless had a kind of security that Neal had never experienced. Peter had watched the changes wrought in Neal as Neal had come to trust Peter's advocacy and loyalty.

True, it had been a loyalty often tried by two very different viewpoints, and the last few months had been rather harrowing after the U-boat treasure had been taken. Peter still felt ashamed of the way that had been handled. True, Neal _should_ have told him, but that would have meant ratting out Mozzie, a thing that Neal would never do. Peter realized after the fact the vice they had put Neal in, him and Mozzie, but he still thought—still _believed_ that, had Neal come to him, they could have worked something out.

He tried to imagine Neal approaching Kramer with the same degree of trust and could not picture it. Even when he had been an agent under Kramer, awed by the man, under his spell, it had not been easy to go to Kramer for help. Peter hoped that Neal was managing to flourish after having been so rudely thrust into Kramer's garden, but he did not know. From Neal, there had been no word—not even from Bruce.

Things were busy in the office, too. The case against David Cook was nearing its anniversary, and Peter knew that that meant another heist was probably already planned. He wished Neal was here to offer his expertise, but—almost immediately—the selfishness of the thought caused him to dash it away. Was he just missing Neal because he was _useful_ to him? Was he any better than Kramer?

Intel and ideas continued to pour in. Diana had found a few skeletons and was painstakingly digging them up. June seemed to be on to something, but Peter tried to stay out of what Mozzie and Sara had going as well. If it worked, he didn't want to know about it and have to shut it down. If it didn't, he had no desire to see anyone else he cared about dragged off in cuffs.

,


	9. Chapter 9

Bruce's visit had cheered Neal quite a bit, but he had been too smart to fall for the trick. He had accepted the message, thanked Bruce for it, but had not responded. He was pretty certain that, had he tried, Kramer would have called foul and had him up on insubordination charges. He was having a hard time as it was not garnering that charge on a daily basis.

But it wasn't _all_ bad. It had gotten better. At least, it had gotten more familiar. Work took on a life of its own, and carried him forward. He'd found a thrift store and bought a pair of jeans and a couple of not-horrible shirts and one nice one. He'd found two ties he might have worn outside of a bar brawl, one of which had a stain on it, but he'd coaxed it out with vinegar and patience. He'd found a one-hour dry-cleaner, which meant that he'd never have to wear that monstrosity of a suit that Kramer bought him again and he did his best to charm them every single time he was in to drop it off or pick it up. As it was, they were only charging him about every other time.

If the other agents noticed he wore the same suit in every day, no one commented on it, and Neal did his best to make the most of his meager wardrobe. The one area he had had to economize in the most was food. He had a limited selection of groceries in his radius, and one of those was a chain that carried the basics but not much more—no whole foods, no international cuisine, unless you counted Rice-a-Roni. He made do. He took his lunch every day, ate in the break room with whoever came and worked on anything that landed on his desk. Kramer had still not approved him to go anywhere outside his two-mile radius without Kramer himself, and since Neal was still not allowed to work on anything outside the office, this was rather cloistering. Still, it was better than jail. Once in a while, Neal felt a pang of almost overwhelming loss, remembering meals around the Burke kitchen table, or sitting with June in her big dining room, but he stuffed them away. There was no sense wanting what he could not have.

As an escape approach, it had it good points. It would lull Kramer into a false sense of security, assuming the man could ever be lulled. (He doubted it.) It gave him knowledge of his co-workers in an appropriate venue that Kramer could not object to—even those agents with whom he did not work. He worked hard at being pleasant and agreeable, gathering more information than he gave, and he deflected any and all talk about both his former exploits in crime (alleged) and his former work for the FBI. There was no telling who might be one of Kramer's spies, and he didn't intend to give up anything that would later be used against him. He learned who worked on what, who liked who, who didn't like who and even, though they dared not speak about it, who liked Kramer and who didn't. The first list was quite a bit shorter than the second one.

As an escape approach, it had its drawbacks. He was so compliant and helpful and _useful_ that he worried that Kramer was finding him indispensable. The other agents were certainly not shy about requesting his ideas or expertise. What he missed, however, was the easy way his coworkers at White Collar had simply allowed him to share his expertise without feeling like he was constantly on the witness stand, incriminating himself. He was exceptionally circumspect in what he said, who he said it to and he even kept tabs on who repeated back to him things he had not told them directly. It was good to know who talked to who.

Speaking of…he was surprised, actually, how little contact he had with Kramer, although often he had looked up to see his new handler looking down on him with an unreadable expression on his face. Caught out, Kramer usually smiled blandly and waved, but Neal _felt_ the insincerity of that friendly overture. Kramer watched him like a hawk, and all work that came to Neal was done inside the Art Crimes offices. Neal never thought he'd miss taking work home, but when they all stayed late to work on something, especially if they ordered food and ate together, Neal found it harder on those nights to go home alone.

And he had been spending his nights alone.

That was by choice, strictly speaking—there seemed no end of young women who either lived in his building or visited someone in his building. Many of them had been friendly—some obviously so—but he had no interest in them. Their young bodies might entice, but what Neal missed almost _desperately_ was the feel of iron sharpening iron, whether it was Peter's brain at work, Mozzie's devious plans at home or Sara's inventiveness in the bedroom. He was peer-less, adrift, and lonely beyond measure.

At least at work there was Melissa. Of all the ones in his office whom he'd expected to shun him, she'd topped the list, but she had been kind and even friendly. She was the only one in this crowd who seemed to know what he had lost, and why he might want it back. The others assumed that con men were constantly on the move, grifters and drifters who did not stay anyplace long enough to make friends. He did not let them get close enough to judge the truth for themselves—he hadn't the energy for it—but he never contradicted them when they painted a life of broken hearts and busted friendships.

He had thought so many times—okay, _constantly_—about circumventing Kramer's orders and getting a burner phone. He was sure he was watched, and he had been certain that his apartment had been searched several times in the weeks he'd been here. The note, the one with the phone numbers on it, went with him wherever he went, but he'd left his phone behind more often than not, resisting temptation. Now, when he thought about calling, he could not imagine what to say, how to start a conversation.

"Hey, Peter—do you miss me? I'm moldering away up here, or did you forget? Do you know I'm lonely and unhappy? Do you know the only thing keeping me here is the thought that my running will hurt you? If you knew, would you _care_?" That last one had been cropping up a lot lately in his thoughts, and he felt both guilty and defiant every time it did.

In the midst of his unhappiness, Neal conjured up a thought that soothed his troubled ruminations. He remembered standing on the balcony with Peter under the light of a brilliant moon, confessing everything he had ever done—_everything_. And he remembered with a flush of pleasure how Peter had listened without lecturing, had even _laughed_ with him at the outrageousness of some of his exploits, and had—in the end—made a solemn promise not to use Neal's trust against him. Shamefaced, Neal knew that he had racked up more things that ought to have been confessed since then—and _had been_—but he realized anew that, whether he had said it or not, Peter had trusted him in many ways. Peter had trusted him with his career, with his cases, with his agents and—even—with his life.

There was no balcony in his little apartment, but if he sat on the end of his uncomfortable bed and looked out the window, he could see the moon. It was the same moon that he and Peter had stood under—older and wiser, perhaps, like them—but the same moon. Neal looked out the window at the moon and felt his heart lift. Of _course_ Peter missed him. Peter would come for him. He would.

He just needed to be patient.

"El! El, Honey—guess what?"

"Did Satchmo find that shoe you were worrying about? Because I thought—"

"What? Not—not Satchmo, Honey. Neal!"

El looked at him. "Neal found your shoe? Peter, what are you—?"

Peter grabbed her arms and kissed her. Enthusiastically. She opened her eyes to see him smiling at her.

"Honey, I'm going to DC today!"

"Oh! Oh, Peter—to bring Neal back?"

His face fell for an instant. "No—not to bring Neal back, but our team is collaborating on a sting with the boys in DC, and I'm going up there. While I'm there, I'm going to drop in on Neal. Bruce cleared it with Kramer."

"That's so terrific, Sweetheart!" said El. "I—oh, I wish I'd baked something to send Neal! I could have made brownies!"

"Don't worry about it," Peter said. "If they're letting me see him, they're probably going to lift the ban. That means you can send Neal brownies—hell, you can _take_ him brownies, probably."

"Well, I'm still waiting for a catering job in DC to crop up. I'm still working my sphere of influence. You never know. And if I'm there, I'm sure I can finagle a way to see Neal but, oh, Honey, I'm so glad. Glad for you. So glad for Neal." She kissed him again, then once on the cheek. "Tell him that one's from me."

Peter looked at her and she grimaced. "Maybe just wait until I'm up there myself."

"You think?" teased Peter. He grinned and put on his coat, adjusted his tie. "Hey—tell Mozzie and June and Sara, won't you? Score one for the good guys!"

"_With_ you?" said Neal. "What do you mean, _with_ you?"

"You're coming _with_ me to the Hirshhorn," Melissa said patiently. "There's a curator there we're going to interview."

The thought of going outside the office was dizzying. "Outside" had become the two-mile radius around his apartment, and had nothing to do with work. Work was done inside these walls, with Kramer's shadow over everything…wait.

"Is Kramer coming?" Neal's joy in the outing palled. Kramer had not been deliberately unkind to Neal, had not done anything overt, but this confinement was slowly killing him. He worked surrounded by art and arty people every day, but he had not put one stroke on paper since he'd arrived. The thought of doing something creative made him feel antsy and ill. The thought of going _out_—with Melissa!—that was something worth getting excited over. And the Hirshhorn! He'd not been in the Hirshhorn in _years_—it was almost too good to be true. But the thought that he might have to share that moment with Kramer….

"No," said Melissa. "I don't need Kramer's help to interview a curator."

"What are we going to interview him about?"

"Her, actually," Melissa said with a mock-disapproving frown. She looked at Neal. "I'm assuming your familiar with the works of Ai Weiwei?"

"Brilliant. Amazing grasp of art in the moment," Neal said. "Is _he_ going to be there?"

"I wish. Don't be ridiculous," Melissa said. "But it seems like someone has taken his artwork as a blueprint. You know _Dropping a Han-Dynasty Vase_?"

Neal snorted. "Doesn't everyone?"

Melissa just looked at him. "Everyone _here_," she said matter-of-factly, "and everyone at the museum. But everyone? No."

"So—when are we going?"

"Now," said Melissa.

"Now?"

"Get your coat."

Neal felt a sudden pang of anxiety and started to look toward Kramer's office, but Melissa caught his arm. "It's okay, Neal. Kramer said I could take you."

Neal made himself relax. Good grief, it was only an art museum. (_Only an art museum!)_

"I'll get my coat."

Work was work, and it took precedence over everything else, but as soon as their business upstairs was concluded, Peter came down to the Art Crimes Division to see Neal. He had wanted to stop on the way up, but they had been coming in on a tight schedule, and he hadn't wanted to rush a reunion. He wanted to see Neal and know for himself that he was hanging in, was doing all right here in DC. He realized with a sense of shame that it had been almost a month since Neal had been quarantined up here, and he wondered worriedly what they'd say to each other.

_I'm being ridiculous,_ Peter thought. _It's not like they didn't have precedent for this. Neal was even in jail for a while, thinking I'd abandoned him…._ Why, of all times, was he thinking about that time _now_? Neal knew he hadn't been abandoned—didn't he? Peter hadn't contacted him because…because Kramer had promised to take it out on Neal. A sudden horrible thought occurred to Peter as the elevator descended. Perhaps…perhaps Kramer had never told Neal that he'd insisted his friends stay away? Suppose Kramer had let Neal believe that they had not contacted him by choice. Fury, cold and invigorating, pulsed through Peter's veins. If he found out that Kramer—

The elevator doors slid open, and Peter was suddenly face to face with his former mentor.

"Hello, Petey," said Kramer, and offered his hand.

"Hello Kramer," Peter almost growled. He had a childish impulse not to take the proffered hand, but good breeding compelled him. He pulled back as soon as it was possible and fought the urge to wipe his hand on his pant leg.

"I thought we might see you here in Art Crimes today. Come in, come in. You're always welcome here."

Peter walked through the door, his eyes scanning the desks, looking for Neal's Socrates head—but of course, it wasn't here. It was back in White Collar, on Neal's desk there where it _belonged_. Where _Neal_ belonged. There was no sign of Neal—probably hanging around the coffee pot. As if reading his mind, Kramer smiled at him.

"Cuppa joe?" he asked.

"Sounds great about now," said Peter. He followed Kramer into the kitchenette, was handed a mug which he dutifully filled. He put it to his lips, but if it was good or bad or terrible he could not have told you.

"White Collar keeping you busy?" Kramer asked.

"That it is," said Peter. He'd be _damned_ if he'd ask about Neal. Kramer loved head games and he wasn't going to play this one. "It's always busy in White Collar—especially when we're a little short-staffed."

The comment almost caused Kramer to grimace, but he caught it in time.

"I'm sure you'll catch up. You have such a young staff—such bright careers in front of them."

Peter was about to say something—something he might regret—when a fiery-headed agent came into the kitchen talking over his shoulder.

"—get that file from Lydia," he was saying, "and go over it with Chandra after—oh! Oh, hello!" He held out his hand. "Sorry for bellowing in the kitchen," he said. "I'm Agent Scooperton. My friends call me Scooter."

Peter extended his hand, not waiting for Kramer since Scooperton hadn't. "Hi Agent Scooperton. I'm Special Agent Peter Burke from the White Collar Division in New York. Nice to meet you."

Scooperton's eyes went wide. "Oh—hey! Not Big, Bad Burke? You worked with Neal!"

It was hard to say whose face registered more surprise—Peter's or Kramer's. Peter recovered first.

"Yes, that's right. I'm, well, I mean, I work with Neal. I _work_ with Neal," he repeated for emphasis.

"Oh, Neal's a great guy," said Scooperton. "Boy, does he _know_ stuff!"

"That he does," said Peter. "So, he's making himself useful?"

"You betcha. He helped Agent Dack…." He trailed off, looking at something to Peter's left, and Peter swiveled quickly in time to see Kramer giving Scooperton a reproving glance. The man's volubleness cut off and he busied himself with coffee. "Sorry," he muttered. "Sorry—I've got to…I'm very busy." He scurried out of the kitchenette as though a fire alarm had gone off. Peter took a deep breath, ready to have this out here and now—

—but Kramer beat him to the punch, and not the punch Peter was expecting. "Neal's not here today," said Kramer, his expression smug.

"Not here? What do you mean, not here? Is he sick? You sent him out for coffee?"

"He's on assignment," said Kramer. "I'm sure you understand that the work has to come first. Neal would probably say the same thing. He's settling in nicely here."

"If he's settling in so nicely, why are you afraid for him to see me?"

If Peter had hoped to goad Kramer into action, he was fated to be disappointed. Kramer smiled, but his eyes were hard. "I'm not afraid for him to see you, Peter. In fact, I even gave permission for you to come by—"

"On a day he's not here!" Peter accused. "Of all the—" Ears were perked up all around the office, and Peter reigned himself in with an effort. "This is not right—this is, I will make sure that Bruce knows about this," Peter finished through clenched teeth. "He helped set this up."

"He did. Who knew that Neal would be on assignment the day you came? It was just one of those things…."

"Show me his desk," he gritted. "I'll at least leave him a note."

"I'm afraid not," Kramer said. "I told Bruce you could _see_ him if he was here. He's not here, and I haven't decided yet whether I'm going to lift the ban on contact with his former…friends."

"Phil," Peter said grimly. "You and I are going to have words, and if you think it's better for us to have them here, in front of your people, then so be it. But I'm suggesting that this _particular_ conversation will go better if we do it away from the crowd."

Kramer glared at him, then turned quickly and saw a long blur of faces hastily turned away. We_ll, he'd never been one for airing his dirty laundry in public, _Kramer thought. _It wasn't proper._ Out loud he said, "Fine—the conference room!" He motioned to a room along the side wall that, like all the other, was glass-fronted, but was, at least somewhat soundproof with the door closed. Peter closed the door behind him and turned on his old mentor and friend. It was quick and loud.

"How _dare_ you," said Peter. "You brought Neal up here to punish him for things you only _suspect_ he did."

"His anklet is no figment of my imagination."

"He was convicted of bond forgery. He served his time."

"Not quite."

"Fine—not quite. He ran. He's serving time for that now. He did a stupid thing, but why do you have to—"

"He brought this on his _own head_. I'm not responsible for the things Neal has done."

"No, but if you're his handler, you're responsible for the man he could become!"

Kramer stared, his eyes bugging out. "That's—that's _preposterous_! I have a job to do and if I can use the people and assets at my disposal to get the job done, then _so be it_."

"People and assets, huh?" Peter said. "Which category do you put _Neal_ in?"

"That's your problem, Petey—you never were good with the hard choices."

"I can live with my choices and sleep good at night. Can you say the same?"

Kramer said nothing, his little eyes hard as flint.

Peter turned away with an effort. If he stood here much longer, he was going to slug Kramer, and he doubted that would end well for either of them. He'd be in the back of a police car, and Kramer would be in the back of an ambulance. He put his cup of coffee down carefully on the table and started for the double glass doors.

"Come again," said Kramer silkily, just as Peter slid through the door. He got in the elevator, punching the lobby button savagely. He knew there were cameras in the elevators but he was tempted to have a swearing, kicking cuss-fit all the same once the doors closed—

The doors stopped closing and sprang open, and a young woman slipped into the elevator. She was dark-skinned, with coppery hair that framed her face in two thick French braids, and she carried an armful of files. Peter was almost certain Neal would have noticed her the first day. "Could you hit the button for Level 6?" she said. "Accounting?"

"Of course." Peter reached past her and hit the button, smiling politely.

They stopped on the sixth floor and the young woman got off without another word. Peter gave a huff of frustration and went outside to find a taxi. He reached in his jacket pocket for his phone, but remembered he'd put it in his pants pocket instead. When he fished it out, he found a pink post-it in his pants pocket and stared at it in consternation. It was folded twice and he unfolded it carefully and looked at the neat, loopy handwriting. It read:

**I know you are Neal's friend. What happened today wasn't right. If you're staying over, try the drycleaner at… **

There was an address, and Peter stared at it, then turned the post-it over. There was nothing on the back. The taxi that had pulled up honked and rolled down the window.

"Hey buddy—you coming or not? I got people waiting!"

"So do I," said Peter, and climbed into the cab.

,


	10. Chapter 10

Eating out was a supreme luxury, but Melissa told him it was on the Bureau. Neal somehow doubted that, suspecting Kramer probably went forensic on the expenses charged to the office, but he went along with it because the thought of sitting in a restaurant with actual linens and silverware and a pretty woman across the table was heady.

Neal stopped, surprised by where his thoughts had taken him. True, when he'd first seen Agent Matthews, he'd been more than happy that his plan and his inclination dovetailed. She had been easy to chat up, easy to show interest in. She was smart, she was funny, she was…asking him something.

"Earth to Neal," she said. "I know it's been a while but you do remember how to order from a menu?"

Abashed, Neal gave the waitress his order and looked down, surprised to see that Melissa had ordered him a glass of wine. She was having one, too.

"So, what did you think?"

"Oh, it's definitely a gang—" he began, but Melissa giggled and cut him off by touching his hand.

"No, silly—not about the case. We can talk about that later. About the museum. You've been before." It was not a question.

"I have," said Neal, "but the exhibits change all the time. It was…it felt great."

"I know you're really more about painting…."

"I sculpt a little," Neal said, and felt himself flush at the look she gave him.

"I didn't know you sculpted, too," she said. "Is there _anything_ you're not good at?"

Neal gestured toward his anklet. "Resisting temptation?" he said.

"Good to know," said Melissa, and smiled at him.

"So you drive the bus every time," said June, smiling at the dignified older black man wearing a neat uniform with the tour line's name embroidered on the patch.

"Yes ma'am."

"June, please"," said June, and smiled.

"June, then," the man repeated, "but only if you'll call me James."

"Alright, James," said June, inclining her head.

"I make sure they get there safely, and I make sure they get home safely. I've never lost a single passenger—a whole busload, well…."

They laughed.

"I'll bet you get tired of the same route," June mused. "I imagine you'd rather be home with your family."

"Well, my sons are all grown, and my baby girl—she's the youngest—she lives in 'Lanta. Got kids of her own—the finest grandchildren you'd ever hope to see."

"You must have pictures," said June.

He pulled out his phone and displayed several pictures of very happy, smiling kids.

"Your turn," he said, and June laughed and brought up her own granddaughter on the screen.

"A lovely young lady," said James. "Just like her grandmother."

June smiled and touched her hair. "So…if I took your tour," said June, "would I have to stay with the group the _whole_ time? I have family in DC…."

"There's always free time," said James. "We try to give them time to shop or whatever. When do you think you might want to go?"

"Oh, soon," said June. "I'm hoping to go very soon."

There is a moment, just before a con turns bad, that the air seems electrified and you can almost feel your heartbeat in your veins. Neal felt it just before they stepped off the elevators, and it pitched him headfirst into panic mode without quite knowing the cause. He put his arm out protectively, keeping Melissa behind him.

"Wait," he said. "Something's—"

"Neal, what are you—?"

Neal shook his head, unable to explain. "There's something wrong. Something's…off."

They walked to the double doors and went through. Everything in Art Crimes seemed normal, but Neal's skin felt itchy and he couldn't relax. Something was _off_, something had _changed_. He looked at the desk where he sat—nothing different there. He looked for anyone he didn't know. He had long since stopped looking for his old friends, always hoping one of them might drop in but never expecting….

"Hey, Neal," said Agent Dack, patting him on the shoulder as he passed. "Somebody who knows you was here."

Neal's heart began to beat double time. "Who was it? Someone from…someone I worked with?"

"Something like that. Scooter said they call him Big, Bad—"

"Peter? Peter's here?" Neal exploded. He grinned wildly, looking around. He looked up at Kramer's office and saw the man looking back at him, a small smile on his lips and he…_knew_. He _knew_. Peter had come while he was out. The trip, the interview, the lunch—it had all been _Kramer_, designed to get him out of the way while….

Neal found his fists were clenched and he glared up at the man behind the glass with such venom that Kramer took a small step back before he could catch himself. Someone touched his arm—Melissa! Of _course_, Melissa! Kramer's right-hand gal! Or _course_ he was with Melissa when Peter stopped by! It all made sense now, it all fell into place.

"Neal, what—?"

"_Please let go of me_," Neal said, his voice barely recognizable. Melissa stepped to where she could see his face and blanched back, her hand falling away, shocked by the hate and fury in his expression.

"Neal, I don't know what—"

Neal had spent a lifetime learning to show one thing while he felt another, but he was doing a bad job of it now. He fought to control his breathing, to get himself back under control, but it was impossible to even _think_ of standing down when all he really wanted to do was march up those steps and throw Kramer _through_ the glass wall of his office. He turned around and ran his hands through his hair, took a deep breath. He wanted to shout, wanted to _hit_ something, and he had half-turned and started for the staircase when Scooter got between him and the stairs.

"Hey, Neal—buddy, come and help me with something for a minute."

"I _can't_," Neal said thickly. "I…I can't."

"Sure you can," said Scooter. "Dag and I are trying to map out a plan for…." A red haze was swallowing his words, but it seemed to have frozen his body in place. Hands were clutching at him, pulling him, and Neal came back to himself as Dag and Scooter managed to haul him, white-face and shaking, around the corner into a conference room. Like everything else, it was glass-fronted, but they got between him and the door, offering him some privacy while he tried to get himself under control.

"That was low, even for Kramer," said Dag quietly. "He must have known Agent Burke was coming."

"Of _course_ he knew!" Neal exploded. "Of _course_, he knew, because I'm not allowed to have contact with anyone from my office unless Kramer says so! If I do—" Neal managed to stop himself. Accusing an FBI agent of blackmail without proof was not going to get him any brownie points, but almost as soon as the thought came he swore and shook his head. _Brownie points!_ Listen to him—as though _anything_ he did, _anything_ he contributed could _ever_ change the way Kramer saw him, the way Kramer controlled him.

"Gosh. I'm sorry, Neal. We all…we all just assumed something…happened, you know. The way you never talk about your old office."

"Something happened," Neal said bitterly. "_Kramer_ happened. My—Peter brought Kramer in to…fix a problem, and he _fixed_ it all right. He…." He was talking too much, and he didn't know who he could trust. Apparently, he wasn't just _rusty_, but broken. He had thought Melissa's overtures kind and well-meaning, but he saw now that it had just been an elaborate ruse on her part to get even with him for what he had done.

And he had almost _kissed_ her.

He had held the door for her as they'd left he restaurant, and she had turned at the last moment, ostensibly to say something and their eyes had met and their lips…their lips had _almost_ met. She had pulled away at the last minute, or _he_ had, and they had dragged everything back onto a professional footing for the cab ride back to the office. And all that time, the whole day, she had just been….

Neal gestured at the map on the table before him. "Tell me about this," he demanded. Dag and Scooter looked at each other, then back at Neal. "Please," Neal gritted. "Give me something to do—something _useful_ to do—so I don't go up there and rip his head off."

Dag and Scooter exchanged looks again. "Okay," said Scooter, recovering his voice first. "This is where the heist occurred. And here—" He pointed. "That's where they were next seen. So my question is, how did they get from point A to point B, huh? How did they make it all the way to freedom?"

_That's what we'd all like to know_, Neal thought darkly, and turned to the task at hand.

"I probably should have waited for Peter," she said. "But I…I just felt like I should bring you into the loop as soon as possible."

"The little man okay with this? I know you've been working together."

"Oh, who knows. Mozzie is…Mozzie is okay with anything that brings Neal home, and don't think he hasn't come up with a scheme or to that would make us all pull our hair out."

"Explains a lot," said Clinton.

"It does. But listen, I've gotten this from two different sources, so I—"

"Reputable sources?"

"Under the circumstances. It takes a thief, and all that. But the thing is, I think we should go and see this guy, this Marsden character. I checked around—he's still doing time in Ray Brook."

"I know," said Clinton. "I've been trying to get up there to see him, but work has been, well—you know."

"You have? See—that _proves_ there's something there. We both hit the same target from different directions! But Clinton—we _have_ to get up there. This could be the ticket. This could help bring Neal home." She smiled. "I know you're not quite as wild about that idea as _I_ am but don't you miss having someone around to do your paperwork?"

Her eyes were hopeful, and Clinton smiled. "I do miss that rascally rabbit," he said. "Look, Peter's out today, so it's a no-go, but when he gets back tonight, I can—"

"Let _me_ go," Sara said. "Let _me_ talk to him. I might be able to reach him in ways that you can't, Mr. Scary FBI guy."

"Scary, huh?" said Clinton, preening. "That might be, but I don't like the idea of you going up there alone."

"I'll take Mozzie," Sara said, rising to her feet.

"Mozzie will not go inside the prison with you."

"He might for Neal," Sara said, and left.

,


	11. Chapter 11

Peter had called the office to say he was driving back. He didn't say when. He'd been cooling his heels hanging around the corner where the dry cleaner was without any clear idea of what he was doing there. Someone—the woman who'd gotten into the elevator with him, presumably—had known he wanted to see Neal, and the note seemed to indicate that Neal wanted to see him, too. It was against orders, but there were apparently lots of rules being broken, so he didn't see why he couldn't join the club.

Finally, he walked up to the door and walked in, the bell jangling as he did so.

"Hello." The woman behind the counter seemed nervous. "Can I…can I help you?"

"I hope so, Ms., um—?"

"Albovias," she said.

"Ms. Albovias," Peter said, not sure how to start. He smiled, then inspiration struck. He thought he still had one of the old pictures in here…. He dug out his wallet and his shield and showed the woman the picture of Neal. His hair was longer and he looked impossibly younger, but it was unmistakably Neal Caffrey. "Ma'am, I'm Special Agent Peter Burke with the FBI. Do you know this man?"

"Oh! Mr. Caffrey! Such a nice man. He's here almost every day!' she exclaimed. The badge had seemed to calm her at first, but now she looked alarmed. "He's not—oh, no—he's not…dead, is he? Has something _happened_ to him?'

The word "dead" made him flinch, but he smiled at her. "Uh, no ma'am," he said. "He's just fine as far as I know, but I'm trying to get in touch with him. I have something that belongs to him (_His life_, Peter thought grimly.) and I'm trying to help him get it back. Has he—he hasn't been in today, has he?"

"Not yet, but he'll probably come in after work."

Peter looked at his watch.

"I could call him," the woman offered.

"You—that would be _great_," said Peter. "Could you do that?"

"I—sure." She smiled at him shyly. "You know, I saw you watching this place for a while. I thought you were coming to rob us."

"Um, no ma'am," said Peter sheepishly. "I'm one of the good guys."

"Glad to know. I'll call Mr. Caffrey for you."

He had managed to hold it together until after five, but the only thing that made it possible was the protective hedge his friends…his _friends_ had erected around him, keeping him busy and on-task. Neal realized that he _had_ made friends here, and the thought humbled him. He put on his coat and started out the door.

Melissa ran to intercept him and he recoiled from her, but one look at her tear-streaked face made him stop in his tracks.

"I didn't know, Neal," Melissa said, her voice clogged with tears. "I just thought…I'd been asking to take you along, get you out of the office. I didn't know he…I'm sorry. He used me, too. God, Neal—I'm _sorry_."

"I can't talk about this now," said Neal. "I'm too…I can't. I'll…I'll see you tomorrow. Here. At work."

She stepped back and he got into the elevator.

His phone rang as he got into a cab and gave his address. It was his dry cleaner. Neal scowled. He was wearing his suit, and had just picked up his shirts. _What could they want_? He almost let it go to voice mail.

"This is Neal," he said. "What's up?" He listened, then almost dropped the phone.

"So, we're going to meet with a forger who's in jail for forging something he didn't really forge?"

"That's right," said Sara, smiling at Mozzie. "You _were_ listening."

"Eh, not really," said Mozzie. "Eidetic memory. But what I want to know is—how is this going to help Neal? What does this _change_?"

Sara took a deep breath. "Maybe nothing," she admitted, "but you just never know. Maybe…_everything_." She waved at the file Clinton had copied for her. "I'll drive. Why don't you put that memory to use and read up on the man we're going to see?"

Neal threw money over the seat and jumped out of the cab, then came bursting into the dry cleaner's door. The same smiling woman he always saw was there, but she was smiling more than usual.

"Ms. Albovias, I don't know what—"

"I found um, something that I think belongs to you," she said, gesturing Neal away from the door and into the back, away from the glass-fronted window and into the room behind the counter. Neal followed her, swallowing convulsively, but when he opened the door and stepped through, there was no one in the little room. He turned around, ready to ask, and Peter Burke stood outlined against the door—large as life and grinning to beat the band.

"Hello, Neal."

"Peter..how…what…?" Neal's inquiries were muffled as Peter pulled him into a crushing bear hug, and for a moment it was…it was heavenly to just stop, just rest and feel the solid weight of someone's arms around him. Those arms were squeezing the breath out of him, but breathing was over-rated, wasn't it? Neal found his own arms creeping up to grip Peter's back.

"Hey, Peter…buddy." It was all he could manage. His throat was tight and he felt a little light-headed.

Peter stepped back but didn't release him, warm hands gripping his head, his shoulder. "Neal, oh, Neal—how are you holding up? You don't know how we've _missed_ you."

"I might," Neal said, and grinned. He started to take a step forward and almost stumbled, but Peter caught him and pounded him on the back again. It occurred to Neal that he should be embarrassed by being so overwhelmed, but he couldn't care about that right now, not when Peter was here, not when Peter had _come to get him and take him home_.

At last, they pulled away, grinning at each other for the sheer joy of being together.

"So—you okay? How are you? You look—is that the same suit you left in?" asked Peter.

Neal looked down and grimaced, flipping open his coat. "Yep—the one and only. It's either that or wear the thing Kramer bought me."

"Explains why she thought I'd find you at your dry cleaners," Peter said. "The tie is new."

Neal grimaced. "New to me. I found a thrift store in my radius. Wait—she? She _who_?" He thought about Melissa.

Peter looked sober. "I guess you heard I came by today."

"Yeah." Just thinking about it, Neal's jaw clenched tight and his eyes darkened dangerously. Peter looked at him, not sure how to interpret what he was seeing.

"Kramer said you were on assignment. I assumed—"

"Assignment! That's a laugh," Neal said bitterly. "They bribed me with a trip to the Hirshhorn Museum, but all I did was hold Melissa's…Agent Matthews' purse. She didn't _need _me—it was just a ruse to get me out of the office."

"Out of the office? Why didn't he just send you out to—?"

"I haven't been out of the office on work since I _got_ here," Neal exploded. There was a tap at the door, and they looked at each other in surprise.

"Mr. Caffrey? Agent Burke? There's a gentleman across the street who's been watching the door since just after Mr. Caffrey arrived. I think he's coming over here…."

"Quick, Peter—hide! Get—I don't know—get into the closet here, no—wait—get into this cabinet."

"Neal—I don't think I'm going to fit."

"Do it!" Neal commanded. He ran into the back part of the store, where rows and rows of neat hanging clothes were encased in clear plastic bags. He ruffled through them hurriedly, finally choosing one, then grabbed his surprised dry cleaner's wife by the arm and whispered frantically in her ear. She nodded, surprised, then her eyes went wide.

They emerged out of the back of the store together.

"It's lovely, Ms. Albovias, and it looks like a good fit. It was really great of you to think of me."

"Well," she said, "It's our policy that if clothes are left here more than 30 days without special arrangements being made, then we sell—oh! Oh, hello." She stepped briskly behind the counter with an apologetic look at Neal, and Neal looked at the newcomer. He had "law enforcement" written all over him, but what branch Neal didn't know. The man started upon seeing Caffrey and seemed to have trouble figuring out what to say or do.

"You—that is, your store cleans suits?"

"Yes sir," said Ms. Albovias dryly, pointing up at the neon sign that said "Dry-cleaning." "We clean suits, shirts, ties. What can I help _you_ with?"

The question seemed to startle the man, and he darted a quick, furtive look at Neal. Neal smiled at him. Whatever arm of law enforcement was, it obviously didn't include undercover work, and whoever he was, he was surely in Kramer's employ.

"Um, nothing today. But, er, maybe next time."

"Well, I see you around here all the time, don't I?" said Ms. Albovias, and the man visibly started. "So just drop on in the next time you're in the neighborhood."

"I—thank you. I will." The man fled the store.

When they were sure he was gone, Neal turned and grinned at his partner in crime, then reached over and kissed her on the cheek. "Thank you. You deserve an Oscar."

"Worth it to see the look on his face. Actually, I'm just glad to know who he is. He's been casing the joint for, oh, about a month."

Neal looked toward the crack in the door, where he could see Peter but Peter couldn't be seen from the street. "About the time I arrived."

"Yes—about the time you first came in, Neal. I thought he was part of the…" She looked at Peter. "Um, you know—the guys who come and try to shake us down."

"She thought _I _was one of them," Peter said.

"Big, Bad Burke," Neal said, and grinned. He handed the suit back to Ms. Albovias. "Thanks for the quick thinking."

"Not a problem," she said, then, "Neal, we really _do_ have some things that have been left longer than 30 days—some of them have been here almost a year. Next time you're in, we'll look at them, okay?

Peter smiled. Wherever he went, Neal seemed to find benefactors. Realizing that, and realizing that Neal still wanted to come _home_, still recognized someplace as _home_ made him aware of the weight of responsibility sitting on his shoulders. He _could not_ mess this up now—he _could not_.

"Neal, he'll probably go back and wait for you at the apartment. It's not safe for me to go there. If Kramer finds out—"

"_Forget_ Kramer," said Neal, smiling. "Just point me toward the car and we'll go. There's nothing I care about in my apartment—I can go like I am."

Peter stared at him, and his startled expression told Neal the whole story. The younger man's face fell, his shoulders slumped.

"You…you didn't come to take me back, did you?"

"Neal, I—no, but I'm working on it. I was up here on business, and I wanted to see you. Hell, I've been worried to death about you—we all are—but I can't…I didn't come to take you back."

Neal swallowed the bitterness in his throat. "But, but…can't we? Can't we clear it with Bruce, can't we—I don't know—just _go_?"

Peter said nothing, and Neal swore and looked away.

"Just a little bit longer, okay Neal? We're working on it—we're all working on it, but it's got to go through proper channels."

"Don't talk to me about…Peter. Don't make me go back. I…please."

Peter almost wished Kramer's goon had found him and they had had an old-fashioned smack-down right there on the spot. _Anything_ would have been preferable to facing Neal's disappointment. Neal had never even asked not to go back to prison. It must be pretty bad for Neal to ask now.

But before Peter could respond, Neal had his conman face back on, the easy-going, laissez-faire expression that could adapt, could survive almost anything.

"Neal…."

"No…it's fine. I…I'm fine, Peter. The work is…is interesting, you know. And I'm doing okay. Some of the folks who knew what happened…they were nice about it."

"Good. Look, I—"

"Oh, hey—wait! You said 'she.' _She_ who? Who slipped you the note?"

"A very nice-looking woman with sort of ginger hair in braids." He illustrated, holding his two fist to the sides of his head. "Very nice suit."

"Very nice legs?"

"Very."

Neal looked surprised. "That's Chandra," he said. "The Admin—she who must be obeyed."

Peter smiled. "I guess I did the right thing by coming, then."

But Neal had already distanced himself a little. Peter saw it, felt it like a punch in the gut, but there was no sense railing against what was. They just had to find a way to _fix_ it.

"I guess so," said Neal, and smiled bleakly. He looked at Peter, mimed writing something, and Peter pulled out his notebook and pen. Looking over his shoulder, Neal wrote down his address, the grocery story he frequented, the address where they were, then handed the little notebook over. "There, now you'll know where I am, wherever I happen to be."

"You can always contact him here," said Ms. Albovias. She smiled at them. "I don't have to know what's going on—I just want to help."

They smiled and murmured thanks.

"I…I guess I better be going. Tell Mozzie—is Mozzie okay? Is June? How's Sara? Tell El I miss her." He stopped. This was ridiculous. He had walked away from more lives than anyone he knew. Why was this so hard? Why had it been so hard?

_Because this one's __**real**__,_ his brain prompted, and Neal knew it for truth.

,


	12. Chapter 12

"Well, I'm certainly glad you found what you were looking for in DC," said June. Mozzie made a sweep for bugs every week, but it didn't mean they weren't tapping the wire.

"Some parts of the visit were disappointing," Peter said. "I went by the Art Crimes Division to see Neal—Bruce said he thought it would be okay—but Neal wasn't there. He was out on assignment when I got there. Somebody must have warned him, huh?"

"Oh, I know you were disappointed," said June. "What a shame. Did you leave him a note—let him know we're all thinking about him?"

"No, I wasn't able to leave him a note," said Peter. "Kramer still thinks Neal will adapt better if he doesn't have contact with his old friends."

"I see." June could frost a glass with the disapproval in that voice. So…Peter had gone to DC and dropped by the Art Crimes Division to see Neal, but Kramer had made sure that Neal wasn't there to see Peter when he arrived. What an absolutely vile person this Kramer sounded. But Peter _had_ evidently made some sort of contact with Neal. The phone call had made that plain. June couldn't wait until the meeting tomorrow at the Burkes. She would get to hear the whole story, get to find out how Neal was _really_ doing.

It was late and she was tired. Mozzie was gone—gone with that nice Sara—somewhere upstate to interview someone. Mozzie had blown out the door in a rush, but she took that as a good sign. Nothing for her to do now but go to bed, try to sleep and hope for a better tomorrow. She was hopeful she might just get her wish.

In the end, Mozzie had swallowed his terror and insisted on coming in with her. It had taken him four tries to make it through the door, but he had managed. _Thank goodness this was not a __**maximum**__ security prison_, Sara thought. _Otherwise, Mozzie would still be in the parking lot._

"You doing okay?" Sara asked. Mozzie was wiping his hands on his pants nervously. They'd spent the previous evening on the road and crashed at a bed and breakfast, wanting to be here bright and early. The bed and breakfast had been another story, but Sara was actually looking forward to telling Neal about it—and soon. June had texted Mozzie to say—cryptically—that Peter had news of Neal and they would all be meeting at the Burkes tonight. Sara thought they might have some news of their own to share.

They looked up with the guard brought the prisoner out. He was tall, compact, with longish salt-and-pepper hair and a neat circle beard and mustache. His eyes were so dark brown they were almost black, and he looked first at Sara, then at Mozzie, then at Sara.

"Karl Cadman Marsden," he said. "My friends call me KC." He reached across and shook their hands, his manner friendly and genial. "I guess we're friends, because I can't think of anything else I've got to offer but friendship." The last was said without bitterness, but a frankness that made Sara relax.

"If you treat me as a friend and trust me, you will find that I justify your trust," said Mozzie nervously. "Arthur Conan Doyle." Marsden looked at Mozzie with interest.

"I hope we can be friends, Mr. Marsden. I'm Sara Ellis, and I was hoping we could talk about your days with the FBI."

Marsden laughed. "It _that_ what this is about? What happened _this_ time?"

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, nothing, I guess. After I was—" He gestured around him. "—so rudely incarcerated here in this fine institution, the FBI came sniffing around the cases I had worked on—wanted to know if I'd been, I don't know, on the take or something." There was still a touch of bitterness in that, although he tried hard not to show it.

"I'm sorry to bring this up, Sir," said Sara.

He looked at her. "I believe you might be. Okay—here's how we'll do this, okay? You tell me who you _really_ are and what you _really_ want and if I feel like it I might just help you."

"Why would you do that?" asked Mozzie.

Marsden shrugged, the dark eyes sparking with mischief. "You seem like nice kids, and Miss Ellis here has already brightened up my day for a month just by sitting down to talk to me. Besides—" He gestured around him again. "What do I have to lose?"

Sara's face had softened, whether by accident or design, and she sat for a moment and tried to think how she wanted to proceed. At last, she pressed her lips together firmly as though she'd made up her mind about something, then put her hands in her lap and spoke.

"Mr. Marsden, my name is Sara Ellis—I said that, but I'm an insurance investigator with Sterling Bosch. I'm pretty good at what I do." She smiled. "I understand you're pretty good at what you do, too."

The hint of a smile played around Marsden's lips.

"I think it's safe to say there is probably some overlap in the things _you're_ good at and the things _I'm_ good at." She glanced at Mozzie. "Let's assume my associate, Mr. Mozart—Mozzie—has some areas of overlap with both of us."

"That was very tactfully put," said Marsden, and saluted her.

"Thank you," said Sara primly. "We…Mr. Mozart and I…we have a friend, who probably—"

"Has some overlap in the same yada yada yada—got it. How can I help you? Do you want to know if he did it?"

Sara's eyes flew wide. Mozzie flinched. "Um, _no_, actually," Sara said, and at Marsden's look of incredulity, she hastened on. "At least, not _this_ time. This is a little different situation."

"Do tell."

"Our…_friend_," said Sara.

"Your _boyfriend_, his _best_ friend—got it," said Marsden, helpfully, and made a "go on" gesture with his left hand.

"Our friend is, like _you_ were, a C.I. for the FBI."

"How's that working out for him?" Marsden said, and the dark eyes shuttered balefully.

"It was working very well," Sara said, "but…but our friend, Neal, when Neal's handler asked a friend in the FBI for some help—"

"That was his _first_ mistake," muttered Marsden.

"It was a pretty big mistake," said Sara. "Things _aren't_ going well now, Sir."

"KC, please!"

"KC. Things are…they….." Sara floundered. She had run out of ways to describe her personal hurt in professional terms.

KC's voice was gentle. "Is he back in?"

"No. No! It's not…it's not quite that bad, only it's almost worse."

KC snorted.

"That is," said Sara, coloring. "Neal had a deal with a handler in New York—a good man, an honorable man."

"An FBI agent?"

"Yes sir. A good man," she repeated. "He's the one who _caught_, that is, put Neal in jail, but later they decided to work together. They work very well together. They _worked_ very well together."

"And something happened, and it just so happens that the handler thinks it's Neal's fault, and Neal doesn't have an airtight alibi and now…."

"Not quite."

"What part did I leave out?" Marsden asked sarcastically.

"The part where Agent Kramer came and took Neal away to DC."

Marsden's head snapped up and he gaped at her. He had been well into his "country boy just being friendly" mode but now he sat up and stared at her, his eyes hot with fury.

"Agent Kramer?! _Phil_ Kramer?" He stood up and ran a hand through his hair, then sat back down again and rubbed his hand over his face. "I'll be damned." He took in some air and let it out, and rubbed his hand over his face again. "I'll be damned," he said again. He turned and looked at her with a lopsided grin. "Any other bombshells you want to spring on me today, little lady? I'm ready for anything," he said.

"Just one," Sara said. She leaned forward and her voice grew conspiratorial. "We know you didn't forge those bonds."

,


	13. Chapter 13

Neal had trouble with his tie the next morning. His hands wouldn't stop shaking, and he was alternately worried that he was going to give it away by grinning his face off or give it away by going berzerk and trying to strangle Kramer. But at least Peter knew. And all the people who loved him—yes, _loved_ him—knew that he was here and okay and that he missed them. He'd lain awake all night thinking of all the things he could have told Peter, all the things he _should_ have told Peter. He remembered that he hadn't been grateful enough for Peter's largesse as a handler, he hadn't been grateful enough to June for taking him in, for making it possible for him to live in style and comfort. He remembered the way Peter looked at him, hugged him tight. Not since Kate…well, really, not _ever_ had he had someone who had pushed past all his boundaries to drag him, unwillingly sometimes, into the heady warmth of real friendship. When he saw Mozzie again he was going to give him a hug _just like that_, and watch the little man avoid him for a month!

Somehow, the tie was tied. Somehow, he had managed to get both the grin off his face and the brightness out of his eyes. Somehow, he was going to go into the Art Crimes office and do _whatever they gave him_, _whatever it took_—until Peter figured out how to bring him home.

Peter would find a way. Neal just _knew_ it.

The hardest part of the meeting, El thought, was getting them all to _slow down_ and actually _listen_ to each other. There was so much to tell, so much to be hopeful about, so much to be sorry about. She glanced over at Peter and saw that he was doing okay. The weight of guilt and sorrow that had fitted over him like a shroud hadn't quite _lifted_, but El was pretty sure it was becoming more transparent. She had been the first to know, the first to see Peter when he got home with news of Neal, the first to share Peter's sorrow in what he had discovered.

He'd been kicking himself the whole way home over the things he _hadn't_ thought to ask about, the things he _hadn't_ told, but they had addresses and they had a contact and maybe a helper in Neal's office. Things were better.

The real bombshell of the evening, however, belonged to Sara. Well, to Sara and Mozzie and Clinton, who had helped them with knowing what to say when they saw Kramer's old C.I. Sara's legwork and a few well-placed calls from Clinton had gotten the ball rolling. Peter left the meeting once to go out on the porch and call Reese, who had not minded _at all_ being disturbed at a cocktail party to come and talk to Peter about getting Neal back.

Things were looking up. El looked around her full living room and thought, "This is Neal's family. Neal should be here." She wondered what had happened to Neal's birth family—what had sent Neal hurtling into adulthood without the loving support of people who cared about him, people who worried about him, wherever he was. El looked out the kitchen window and saw the moon, smiling like it knew something. _Well, Peter know something now!_ she wanted to shout. _And Neal will be coming home soon!_

He _would_ be—Peter would see to it!

The District Attorney had been more than a little surprised to get the call, but he assured Reese he would look into it and let him know what he found out.

"That's all we can do for now on _that_ front," Peter said. "Diana—get me an update on the group looking the Mortenson Mortgage Fraud."

"Um, Boss—we had to pull that group to work on David Cook."

"Any luck there?" asked Peter, but without much hope.

"Not really," said Diana. "He's sneaky. Crooked and sneaky. Damn, I wish Neal was here."

"Speaking of crooked and sneaky?" Peter asked, but smiled when he said it. They were _all_ in better moods today.

"You think Neal is holding up okay?"

"Well, June is going to see him today."

"_Today_, Boss? Don't you think that's a little risky? Kramer will be watching us."

"That's right," said Peter. "Kramer will be watching us. I'm going to make as big a stink as I can about not getting to see Neal yesterday—really play it up. That will put the dogs off the scent, at least a little. June is just going up for a comfort visit."

Diana laughed. "Said the man who told Neal to 'cowboy up' when he parked his C.I. in a little fleabag hotel."

Peter colored. "Well, this is different," he said gruffly. "Then, Neal was a con man, doing time that he deserved. Now—did you know Neal's not been out of the Art Crimes office once until yesterday?"

"I heard you say that last night, but I don't understand. Why would Kramer do that? Neal is brilliant in the field." She looked behind her, her face flushing. "Don't tell him I said that," she demanded. "If he doesn't want Neal in the field…."

"I think he _does_ want Neal in the field," said Peter. "But he doesn't trust him. Kramer doesn't trust anyone. It's part of what makes him a good agent—that suspicious nature, but he didn't used to be like this. Now he…I don't know. Do you know the story of the dog in the manger?"

Diana nodded. "My father used to tell it to me when I didn't want to share my toys."

Peter nodded. "Maybe a little of that going on. Maybe just the inability to admit he was wrong."

"I'm glad you got to see him," said Diana. "It…makes me feel better, you know?"

"I understand you did very well in the field yesterday," said Kramer, coming up behind Neal at the desk where he sat. Neal had learned to recognize his almost silent footfalls, but it was still a challenge in the busy office. At least he didn't flinch, and luckily he didn't say, "Yes—Agent Matthews told me I did a very good job holding her purse and looking earnest."

He found that he could not hold on to the biting anger that had seized him yesterday, but the awareness—the very real realization of what he might have missed had Kramer succeeded—left resentment bubbling under his skin like lava.

"Thank you, Agent Kramer," Neal said formally. "At White Collar, I spent most of my time in the field. I'm told I'm good at it."

"No doubt," said Kramer. He looked at Neal, and Neal concentrated on making his face as bland and banal and unreadable as it could be. Still, he felt sweat break out under his armpits before Kramer was done. Neal had stood up under Peter's worst glowers—had _given back_ a few—but Kramer's stares sometimes made his blood run cold. Perhaps it was the knowledge that, to Kramer, he was nothing more than a criminal, nothing more than an unrepentant (well….), irretrievable soul. To Kramer, his whole worth had been set when the prison doors had clanged shut the first time…or had they? Out of the blue, Neal remembered something Peter had once said, something about Kramer having had a C.I. That had been in the later days, the bad days, the days when Peter had thought him unredeemable, beyond saving.

But Peter didn't think that now, and Neal was coming to realize that _he_ didn't think that now. He stood a little taller under Kramer's gaze.

"Well, let's see, then," said Kramer. "We're going to take down an art thief when he tries to fence two small pieces from the Museum of Modern Art, but the fence is not friendly."

"How are you guaranteeing cooperation?"

Kramer looked surprised. "If she doesn't cooperate, we'll shut her down. She'll be facing changes herself, receiving stolen property."

"See, that's where you're…I mean, that's not how I would do it, Sir," Neal said. Kramer looked at him.

"Oh? What _would_ you do, Neal?"

"I'd offer her immunity, for starters, but when you make the arrest, make sure she's taken into custody as well. She's no good to you if they think she'll snitch."

"They who? We already have our target."

"Yes, sir—this time. But in the long run, you'll do better by building a rapport with her, building a relationship with her so that she'll come to you when something really important comes along."

Kramer looked at him. "And what do you consider _really important_, Neal?"

Here Neal smiled, the biggest, blandest con-man smile in his repertoire. "I like it all," he said.

Kramer looked at him for a long moment. "I don't know if I want to bring you along or not," Kramer mused. "I'm never sure which side you're on."

"I'm going to be on the side that butters my bread," said Neal. It rankled, but it was the sort of thing Kramer expected to hear.

"I imagine that's true," said Kramer. "Come on, then." He called over his shoulder. "Dack—Caffrey's coming along. Help me keep an eye on him, won't you?"

Dack looked at Neal apologetically, and Neal shrugged. "It's my first time on a big raid," he said, sounding like a little boy. He rolled his eyes after he said it and Dack grinned and rolled his eyes back, glad Caffrey hadn't taken offence. Kramer could be a real piece of work—legalistic old bastard—but he did usually manage to bring home the bad guy.

"I know you can't carry," said Dack, "so stick close, okay? Sometimes they come out shooting when they're cornered."

"You don't have to tell me," said Neal, and followed them out the door.

"James, this is possibly the nicest date I have had in some time," said June. They were sitting at a little café having coffee and pie while the other senior citizens bought souvenirs and tickets to take back home.

"From you, that's quite a compliment,' said James, teasing her. "I was ready to bring my big stick in case I had to beat the other contenders off."

June laughed. "Thank you," she said. "So far I seem to have been able to get rid of the ones I don't want on my own."

"And I'm still here," said James.

"That you are," She smiled and leaned forward. "Look, James, I was wondering if you would come with me on an errand. Make a little stop with me."

James looks surprised. "I…I don't usually leave the bus," he said. It was parked nearby in the bus parking lot.

"Oh, we can take the bus if you prefer, but if you think it will be okay in the parking lot, I'll just get us a taxi."

James hesitated. "Well," he said. "I don't guess there's any harm in it."

"None," said June. "I just want to deliver a package to a friend of mine's daughter. She attending Georgetown. I have her address here…." She pulled out a worn address book and flipped pages. "Here it is," she said, pointing. "It's near Georgetown."

"Sir, I want to thank you," said Sara. She stood, elegant in a teal wool dress with an asymmetrical neckline. "You information was very good. Very good indeed."

The old man sitting in the leather booth nodded, accepting her praise. "I understand you have something for _me,_ now?" His eyes were bright behind hooded lids.

Sara reached to take something out of her purse, and both of the enormous men on either side of him tensed. Sara smiled at them, and moved slowly.

"Here's a list of names," she said, "of people in your organization who recently took out insurance policies on items that might interest you." She handed it over. "I think it's only fair to say that Sterling Bosch has an interest in those items as well. If they were to go _missing_, then my company would be responsible for paying the insurance claim, but since most of these items seem to belong to you…." She smiled.

"You're a smart lady," said the man. "And very beautiful."

Sara smiled again, a wide predatory smile.

"Tell Mozzie I said hello, won't you?" said the man. "Tell him I'm pleased that he thought of me."

"I will, Sir," said Sara. She hesitated. "I sincerely hope we don't meet again," she said gently, "unless, of course, it's under circumstances like these."

"I promise to do my best to make it so," he intoned solemnly.

"Thank you, Sir," said Sara as she turned to go. "I know I can count on your promise."

Neal walked June down the stairs but then didn't go out on the curb. Before she stepped out, she'd put her hat and sunglasses back on.

"June," said Neal, letting her hug him one last time. "Thank you so much for coming. I—you don't know how much I miss being…home."

"Oh, I'll bet I can guess," she said gently. "You remember Byron was…away…more than once. I know how lonely it can get."

"And thank you for the…for the news. Peter and I, we didn't get to talk."

"Well, we'll all have a chance to talk soon," said June. "Peter's working on something. And Sara is helping."

"Sara?" Neal's smile broadened. "If Sara's helping, Kramer had better watch his step. He threatened her once, you know?"

"I know, dear. It seems to be his modus operandi." She put her hand on his cheek and he caught it and kissed it.

"Thank you, June. Thank you so much for coming."

"I just wanted to see for myself that you were okay." She put her hat back on and adjusted her sunglasses. "What do you think of my 'date'? she asked. "I think he's kind of hot."

"I say you've still got it, June."

She laughed and walked out the door. Watching her, Neal's eyes felt hot and tight, but he was smiling broadly. How much things had changed in the past three days! Everything seemed better.

He started up the stairs. Even work had gone better than expected. His first real outside-the-office assignment, the take-down, had gone down without a hitch—well, almost without a hitch. He was still trying to make sense of what had happened _after_, when Agent Dack had left with one of their captives and left him alone with Kramer at the top of the stairs.

He had started down, but Kramer had clutched his arm, pulling hard, and Neal had swung around, ready to ask Kramer politely to _let go_, but Kramer seemed to be disoriented, his head turning from side to side as though looking for something and he took an uncertain step forward.

"Agent Kramer?" Neal had said, and gripped the man's shoulders to steady him. There was not much maneuvering room at the top of these stairs, and he didn't have any desire to take a tumble. "Agent Kramer?"

Kramer had looked at him, face blank, mouth moving, then suddenly he grabbed Neal's arms convulsively, his face flooding with recognition.

"What…what happened?" Kramer had said. "Did…where are we?"

Neal had stared at his handler, alarmed. "We're getting ready to go back to the Art Crimes Office, Agent Kramer," Neal had said. "The other agents just left. Are you okay?"

Kramer had rapidly regained his composure. "Of course I'm okay, KC," he'd snapped. "Why wouldn't I be? I…just got a little light-headed after the excitement, that's all. Nothing to worry about." He'd started for the steps, stumbling a little, but Neal caught his arm. "What?" he'd demanded angrily. "Why are you holding me back?"

"The, um, stair rail is loose," Neal had said. "Be careful on the way down."

Kramer had rattled the rail, then looked up at Neal. "I guess you'd better go down ahead of me," he'd said. "Where I can keep an eye on you."

Neal had been more than happy to comply.

What had it all meant? Back at the office—indeed, before they'd made it back to the office, Kramer had been back to his usual _charming_ self. When the car had pulled up in front of the building and the other agents had started to get out, Kramer's hand had closed around his forearm like a vise.

"Don't say a word to _anyone_," Kramer had murmured out of the corner of his mouth.

"I…no sir," Neal had muttered, and followed Kramer into the building.

Alone in his room, with coffee and cookies and a tin of truffles, Neal had lain back on the bed and felt rich beyond compare. But he kept seeing Kramer's face, blank and terrified, turning from side to side. Kramer had told him not to tell, and right now, Neal's whole world revolved around not openly defying Agent Kramer. If something _was_ wrong, who could he tell?

He pondered for a moment, licking his finger and picking cookie crumbs off his chest. Chandra had been his secret friend, had sent him Peter. Maybe he could tell her. That would have to do.

That night, as he drifted off to sleep, Neal felt less alone than he had in a long, long while.

,


	14. Chapter 14

"Reese, I'd really love to know what your interest is in this case," said the District Attorney.

"Well, we stumbled upon some information looking into something else. It seemed only appropriate to pass it on."

"Well, we've contacted his attorney. Actually, his attorney is deceased, but his daughter has taken over her father's practice. She's going to go through her files and get back to us, but so far, everything you've given us has panned out. What are they putting in your water coolers down there?"

"Scotch!" said Reese, and they hung up laughing. He stepped to the door and motioned for Peter, who nodded and indicated he'd finish his briefing with Diana and Clinton later. Reese waved them all over, mouthing, "Bring them!"

They trooped over obediently and looked at him.

"That was the DA, and it looks very likely that the charges against Karl Cadman Marsden are going to be dropped in light of new evidence received." He looked at Peter. "Have you talked to Kramer at all?"

Peter shook his head. "The last time I spoke to Kramer was when I went up there to see Neal and he wasn't there." Everyone in the room squirmed a little, knowing the truth of Peter's eventual visit with Neal. "We had words—I left mad. So, no. I haven't talked to him."

"Well, there's something else that you all don't know," said Reese. They shuffled nervously, exchanging glances. "Did you ever ask yourself why Kramer was keeping Neal on such a short leash up there?"

"Because—" Diana began, and then realized that she might not be comfortable speaking as freely in Reese Hughes' office as she was in Peter. "Not really, sir—why?"

"Well, Peter here knows—which I suppose means that both of _you_ know, that Kramer's plan is to keep Neal on the anklet with additional charges."

"He said Neal had a lot of skeletons," Peter said. "And he was going to use whatever he found."

"Well, what Kramer has is a lot of suspicions, and a lot of rumor. Now, I _suspect_," he said, looking hard at Peter, "that _some_ of what he knows is actually true, but I also know for a fact that some of the things he's been trying to pin on Neal were done by someone else."

"So…what are you saying, sir?" asked Clinton.

"I'm saying, 'The leg bone doesn't seem to be connecting to the anklebone' the way Kramer hoped it would. I'm saying Kramer hasn't found anything else he can pin on Neal. Now, when he went up before the Board, he was making all sorts of innuendo, all sorts of smoke, but the fire hasn't materialized. I don't think they would have approved Kramer's deal unless they thought—like Kramer thought—that he had the goods to keep Caffrey a long time." He paused and shuffled papers from one side of his desk to the other, then cleared his throat. "It will probably cause a stink cloud the size of Hiroshima, but tomorrow morning I'm going to go to Bruce and the Board and everyone else and _make them give us our C.I. back_," he thundered.

In the silence that followed, Diana raised her hand. "Yes, Agent Berrigan?"

"Um, Sir, would it be okay to _cheer_ now?"

Reese waved them away. "Only if you do it outside my office. Peter, when the paperwork comes through, you want to go and get him yourself? Might be fun to see Kramer's face."

"It'll be pretty good to see _Neal's_ face," Peter said. "Thanks, Reese."

"My pleasure," he said, and waved them out without looking up.

It was midmorning in the Art Crimes Division when the doors were pushed open and Special Agent Peter Burke from White Collar in New York walked in. There was a ripple through the office, but the desk where Neal usually sat was empty. Peter's eyes narrowed, and for a moment he wondered what the devil Kramer thought he was pulling, but then Neal's face appeared out of the conference room door, followed by the familiar heads of Agent Matthews and red-headed Agent Scooperton. Neal's face broke into a wide grin, but he tamped it down almost immediately at a look from Peter. Peter waved Neal back and mounted the steps to Kramer's office with alacrity.

Kramer met him at the door, and the two men exchanged hard looks, then Peter stood still and handed Kramer an envelope from his breast pocket.

"What is this?" Kramer demanded.

"It's an order returning Neal Caffrey to my custody as _my_ Confidential Informant," Peter said. Kramer ripped open the seal and read, his expression growing dark.

"This is—you can't do this."

"I _am_ doing this," said Peter. "It's already done. I'm just here to take him home."

"But…I _told_ you what would happen if you defied me. I _told_ you I'd find something else to charge Neal with, something that will—"

"If you _could have_, you'd have done it by now. And you are formally forbidden to dig through his files unless you have reasonable cause or new evidence comes to light."

"I—we've cracked those codes between him and Kate," Kramer said, indignant.

"I think you'll find that none of the works of art referenced in those codes is missing any longer. I understand they made an amazing discovering just a few weeks ago in a farmhouse outside of Prague. No missing art, no crime to investigate."

"You won't get away with this," Kramer said, his face mottled with rage.

"I _will_, and you know why? Because I'm on the side of justice. You made this a personal vendetta, and there's no room in the law for a personal vendetta."

"I follow the law!" Kramer snapped. "I only do what the law allows."

"I _agree_—and _that's_ the problem! You're skimming along the _edge_ of the law, fulfilling the letter but not the intent."

"You'd _know_ about _intent_, I'll wager!"

"I _would_, yes! You know as well as I do that sometimes justice is better served by grace than legalism."

"That's your problem, Peter—all carrot and no stick, huh?"

"Not what I'm saying!"

"Then what _are_ you saying? Spit it out, man!"

"I'm saying if you treat your C.I. like a criminal, that's all he'll ever be. If you give him choices—"

"I _gave_ him choices! I gave him _plenty_ of choices! And after all that, after _everything_ I'd done for KC, he _turned_ on me, be_trayed_ me without even—" Kramer broke off abruptly, looking confused. "I mean…I mean…."

Peter's voice was gentle. "I think we both know what you mean."

Kramer looked shaken, off-balance, and his breathing was rough and labored. "Not—not what it looks like," he muttered, reaching for his tie. He swung his head from side to side as though looking for something, and his eyes grew confused. His face had gone gray, pasty, and he struggled for composure.

"Phil?"

Kramer's eyes swung toward Peter but they were empty, vacant of understanding. "Not what it looks like…." Kramer said again, and crumpled to the floor.

Thunderstruck, Peter closed the distance between them and knelt by his old mentor's side, checking for a pulse. It was thready and fast. He stood up and threw open the glass door to Kramer's office. "Medic!" he yelled. "Help! We need a doctor! _Now_!"

He loosened Kramer's tie, unbuttoned the top two buttons and checked his airway.

"Stay with me!" Peter said urgently. "Phil—stay with me!" His bellow had summoned help. He could hear running footsteps, sensed that others were coming. He checked for a pulse again and found it with difficulty. He touched his hand over Kramer's chest, wanting to make sure there was a heartbeat, but while he watched the barrel chest rose and fell once, then rose no more.

"No, damn it!" Peter snapped. "Don't you—don't you _dare_ die on me!"

Peter went up on his knees and straddled Kramer's supine form, placing his hand over the left side of the chest. Deliberately, he pumped twice, compressing the heart, then leaned forward and breathed firmly into Kramer's slack mouth. He pumped again, forced breath into the still lungs. And again. Nothing.

Someone fell to their knees beside him.

"How can I help?" said a woman's voice.

"He's stopped breathing! Do you know CPR?"

"Yes," said the woman. "What do you want me to do?"

"Do the breathing," Peter said. "I'll do the chest compressions, you do the breathing, okay? We can keep it going longer that way."

"Okay." She scrambled over to Kramer's head and knelt beside him. "What happened?"

Compress, compress. "We were…we were arguing." No sense lying about it. Half the office had probably heard their raised voices.

"He's been taking heart medication," said the young woman. She breathed into Kramer's mouth. "And his blood pressure is way too high."

Compress, compress. "I didn't know that."

"He didn't _want_ anyone to know it." She paused to breathe. They were talking in rhythm with the CPR, timing their words for when each of them could talk.

"Figures," Peter muttered. Sweat was forming, trickling into his eyebrows. Compress, compress.

The woman smiled, and her dark eyes flashed. "Yes—he was like that. He had a heart attack about a year ago."

"I…I didn't know," Peter said, wondering what _else_ he didn't know. Had he villainized Kramer without remembering the smart, patient, stubborn man he was? His arms were aching, his shoulders burning from the effort.

Others had joined them. Peter felt a hand on his arm.

"You okay? I can take over."

"That would be great," Peter groaned. They timed it carefully, then Peter rolled and the other man took his place. Another man knelt and took over for the woman who'd been doing the breathing, and Peter stood up and helped her to her feet.

"Thanks," she said shakily.

"No—thank _you_," Peter said. "You…you saved my life back there."

"You saved _his_."

"Not yet, I didn't," said Peter. "Where are the damned paramedics?" But almost before the words had left his lips, they were coming, they were rounding the corner, bringing a stretcher and their expertise. Peter let out a whoosh of relief and sagged against the wall, suddenly dizzy.

"Hey, are _you_ okay?" asked the woman, but at that moment, Neal rounded the corner and took in the scene before him. He saw Kramer on the floor, saw the paramedics working on him, turned wildly, looking frantically around and saw Peter. He walked over and the two men grinned at each other quickly and embraced. Peter's arms were trembling and he felt weak and unsteady, but his grip on Neal's neck was strong and solid.

"Hey, kiddo," said Peter.

"Hey yourself," said Neal, but their joy at seeing each other was tempered by the drama unfolding before them. "What happened?"

"He collapsed. We were…arguing. He went pale, seemed to lose his train of thought and…down he went." He looked at Neal, at the woman at his side. "I didn't know he'd had a heart attack."

"I think he had a stroke the other day," said Neal. "He said it was nothing. I thought he was just tired, out of breath, but later, it seemed like more than that." He looked at the woman beside Peter. "I told Chandra about it."

"I didn't know," she admitted. "I knew about the first one, the one he was hospitalized for."

"I heard that was high blood pressure."

"Well…that's the story he told, but I heard indirectly that he'd actually had a heart attack."

"What's going to happen?" Neal asked. His eyes slid anxiously toward the figure being lifted on the stretcher. "Will he be okay?"

Peter came up beside him and they looked at Kramer's gray face, at his blue lips around the ventilator. "Time will tell," he said. "We'll have to wait and see."

"How is he?" Neal asked.

"He's recovered enough to be giving the nurses hell," Chandra said with a smile. She touched Neal's arm. "It's going to be quiet around Art Crimes without you."

"What—Party Central? Never?" The smile slipped off his face and he looked grave. "Kramer, will he be…okay?"

"He's tough, and he's recovering. If he does what the doctors recommend, he could outlive us all."

"I always intended to die young," Neal said.

"And beautiful," Chandra said. "Don't forget beautiful."

"I won't forget _you_, Beautiful," Neal said.

"Okay," said Chandra. "_Now_, I'm ready for you to go." She smiled to soften it, then leaned in and kissed him gently on the cheek. She nodded toward the door. "Peter's in there with him, if you want to go in."

Neal nodded, swallowed, and went in.

"Hello, sir," he said. Kramer managed to look imposing even in a hospital gown. "I hope you're feeling better."

"What I'm feeling is like a damned fool," Kramer rumbled. He jerked his head at Peter. "Petey here's been telling me about the charges against my former C.I."

"KC?" said Neal.

Kramer nodded. Too many secrets out of the bag now. "Seems I was wrong about him after all." He looked at Peter. "And you were right about me."

"Phil—"

"No—let me talk. Honesty is supposed to be good for you, they say."

"It depends," Neal muttered, but grinned when Kramer gave a wheezy laugh.

"No—I…I should have stood by KC when he was accused. I was so busy being angry at being played for a patsy that I…well, I maybe forgot what this is all about."

"Catching the bad guys?" said Neal.

Kramer shook his head. "Justice," he said. He looked over at Peter and put a hand on his arm. "A wise person once told me that justice is sometimes better served by grace than legalism."

"That does sound wise," said Neal. "Are you sure you didn't read that on your fortune cookie?" He was doing what he often did, deflecting when he felt uncomfortable, but the two agents in the room were not fooled.

"Neal," said Kramer, "you have to know that my intentions were…."

Neal's eyes blazed, but he said nothing.

"Well, they weren't good, but they were honorable. I thought it was _me_, that _I_ had messed up with my own C.I."

"You did," Neal said bluntly. "You should have stood by him until you were sure."

Peter felt the leading edge of that anger touch him as well, and looked away. They would have to talk—a lot—but later.

"I should have," Kramer acknowledged. He looked at Peter. "They tell me KC's getting out of jail. Maybe it won't be too late to make amends."

"It's never too late," said Peter.

Kramer waved at all the wires and tube. "It was almost too late." He gave another wheezy chuckle. "Or maybe I'm too mean to die."

No one said anything for a moment, and Kramer looked from one to the other in consternation. "What-no contradictions from the dynamic duo?"

Neal opened his mouth, then closed it, but Peter said, "None," very distinctly.

And then they all laughed.

"Hail the conquering heroes!" Mozzie cried when they emerged through the walkway at the airport terminal. "What—no head on a stick?"

"No heads on sticks, Moz," Neal said. "Can't get through airport security."

"Well, I'm going to kiss the heroes if nobody else wants to," said June, and stepped forward to cup their faces in turn in her lavender-scented hands. She smooched them each on the cheek.

"It's so good to see you, Neal," said Elizabeth. "I knew you two would emerge victorious—triumphant over the bad guys!"

Neal smiled. "I have kind of a soft spot for bad guys." His eyes edged over to Diana. "So do you. C'mon—admit it!"

"I do not!"

Sara sauntered over and linked her arm through Neal's. "I do," she said with a wide smile. "Apparently, I have a _type_."

"Does that mean _we're_ over?" asked Mozzie, looking worried.

"I'm afraid so," said Sara gently, but to her consternation, Mozzie sank into a chair, weak with relief.

"Thank _Socrates_!" he cried. "Thank Aristotle! I'm _exhausted_ from having to maintain appearances!" He looked at Neal. "I don't know how you _do_ it! She is _very_ high-maintenance!"

Sara started toward the little man, murder in her eye, but Neal wrapped both his arms around her and pulled her close. "It's okay," he told her. "The bad little man is all gone. I've got you now."

She opened her mouth to protest and he kissed her. Nobody looked away, but neither Neal nor Sara appeared to object.

"Okay," said Elizabeth briskly. "Don't you think it's time we got this show on the road?"

"I think it's time for the show to _close_," said Clinton. "I'm ready to—"

"Close?" Neal protested, surfacing from his kiss at last. "Are you kidding me? It's time to get things going again! I'll bet things have been downright _stuffy_ in White Collar without me. Admit it!"

"Neal!"

"Caffrey!"

"If you don't—"

"C'mon! You know you missed me!

"I do have some mortgage fraud cases that need to be looked at," Clinton said.

For a moment, Neal's face fell, then he grinned all over his face. "Mortgage fraud sounds pretty damn good to me," he said, "as long as I'm back where I belong."

"Prison?" asked Diana.

"A zoo?" Peter quipped.

"Ha ha." He glared at them. "You know what I mean!"

"_I_ know, Neal," said Elizabeth, and reached to squeeze his arm.

"You _have_ missed me," Neal insisted.

"I've missed you," said Mozzie. "What am I, second-class pate?"

"Whatever you say, Caffrey," said Clinton, sounding bored. Peter was smiling, but said nothing.

"No, he's right," said Diana. "Until the new guy took over his desk—"

"My—my _desk_? You gave away my _desk_?! Peter—"

"Neal?" Peter was going for nonchalant and overshot. Neal looked at him, eyes narrowed. "You're bluffing," he declared. He turned and walked in front of them, leading the way out, his step jaunty and self-assured. "You didn't give my desk away. You _need_ me."

"Is that right?" said Peter, trying hard to tame the twitch of his mouth.

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, Caffrey."

Neal thought about all the nights and days away from them, all the time spent wondering if he would ever…. His steps slowed, and he swallowed. "You…all of you worked hard to get me back," he said, but, for the first time, he sounded uncertain.

Peter stepped up and matched his stride with Neal's, put a warm, solid hand on the back of Neal's neck. "It's okay, Neal. We all know where you belong."

"Behind bars," muttered Diana, then grinned. "Just kidding. You belong at White Collar."

"No," said Neal. He stopped and turned and looked at them all. "With you. With all of you—wherever you happen to be."

Peter stopped trying to hide his smile. "Darn tootin'," he said, and turned them all toward home.

****fin****

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End file.
